


Fear The Sunless Lands

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Gore, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunters live in a world of blood and darkness, so when Dean gets turned into a vampire, not much changes for the Winchester brothers. Well, except for being on the lam from a Hunter’s Guild that wants them dead, sneaking around the world of seedy underground monster bars and sketchy voodoo practitioners in search of a fabled ‘cure’ and the little fact that Dean can’t seem to stop himself from molesting his brother when he feeds (and sometimes when he doesn’t). But as the lines between what they were raised to be and what they are get blurrier, Sam and Dean will have to decide how high a price they are willing to pay for a life in the light and what they’re willing to do for one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I owe so many people for their help on this fic. First of all, thanks to fiercelynormal for reading through this way back in the beginning when I wasn’t sure if I could pull it all together and helping me work out some of the wrinkles.  
> Thanks as well to my fantastic beta, larenoz, who helped me figure out what the heck I was actually trying to say.  
> Of course I can’t forget the amazing art heard_the_owl created to go along with the story – she did such a wonderful job, guys; [go give her all the love!](http://heard-the-owl.livejournal.com/29388.html)  
> And naturally, a big debt of gratitude also goes to all of my twitter pals and flisties who cheered me on and listened to me bitch about this thing for the last six months – I promise to be much more fun in the coming days ;)  
> Finally, a sincere thank you to the LJ spn_j2_bigbang mods for undertaking this insanity for us!

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=78c4a390.jpg)

_**“I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister's gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her. They do not love her.”**_ \- Dream about Death in Sandman #8 "The Sound of Her Wings"

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=29530e27.jpg)

_Iron-thick air oozes toward the back of his throat like sludge. Meaty thud; Dean, shoved to his knees, shirt stained so red it’s black from the seeping mess of his neck. Blood flow hasn’t stopped yet. Heartbeat hasn’t stopped yet. Fangs for the briefest of flashes as his mouth opens on a last breath before the shine of a blade and a smear of blood._

Sam's feet hit the cold floor next to the bed in the same moment that the rain-sticky air hits his lungs. The paving stones of the Seer dormitory are smoothed down from a century of rough boots and salt scrubs, slick enough to send him skidding as the takes the corner into the hall, rolls with it and keeps going, crawling until he can get to his feet.

The night-guard in front of the dormitory startles as Sam rushes by, but either he catches the mark of Seer etched into Sam's forearms or has enough common sense to recognize that Sam is a man on a mission because he doesn't make a move to stop him as Sam leaps the steps and barrels on, gravel courtyard like a bed of nails on the tender soles of his feet. He hardly notices.

In the distance, the wrought iron fence that marks the edge of the compound is highlighted in shades of undulating red and blue. No sirens, so no way to know whether it’s police or an ambulance, but either way, it doesn’t matter - the cops don’t have any legal standing in hunter business and if Sam’s dream means what he thinks it does, there’s nothing an EMT could do for his brother.

The top of a white van, visible over the spiked line of the front gate, and the big broadcasting dish on top of it is what rankles. Vultures. Ten minutes and it’s going to be a media circus out there. Sometimes Sam thinks their ancestors had the right idea, keeping the rest of humanity in the dark about what hunters do.

Fear-sweat from the vision cools in the pre-dawn air, dries tightly on his skin, oxygen bursting like a combustion engine in his lungs. Run, run, run.

The slap of his feet echoes off of the tile floors of the Guild hall, the high domed ceilings magnifying the harsh sound of his breath and throwing it right back in his face. More guards notice him, are following him this time, but Sam wasn’t raised in the life for nothing. Let them try and stop him.

The milky yellow light up ahead is coming from the Council Room, and he can’t be sure that that’s the right one from the vision but he’s not stupid enough to take the chance. He just hopes he’s got enough lead time.

His brother’s name is exploding from his throat before he even makes the doorway, the scent of blood and sweat and home swallowing him whole before the syllable finishes curling off of his tongue along with the weight of Dean’s arm, Dean’s body, turning them. Sam’s arms come around him automatically, one hand fisted in the leather jacket that has never quite stopped smelling like their father, the other finding the tacky wetness of blood on his big brother’s skin.

A drugged babble of, "Sammy, can't, gotta, Sam," pouring out of Dean’s mouth gets cut off by a sharp, _cha-chack_. Every muscle in Dean's body twitches at the sound, familiar as breathing; .9mm Glock. His boots shuffle against Sam's naked feet like he’s trying to spin them again, get himself between Sam and the gunfire – of course he would, fucking idiot – but Sam doesn't give an inch. It's like trying to hold back a freight train with his teeth, but he manages.

Physically forcing himself to let go of Dean's jacket, circulation rushing back into his fingertips so fast they prickle, Sam turns around instead, shoulders bracing up against Dean's chest in case he gets any ideas about going all white knight.

“You want him, you’re going through me.” The warning comes out a rasp, nothing but patchwork scraps of air getting into Sam's lungs. It echoes off of the vaulted ceiling like a ping-pong ball, bouncing off of devil's traps and pentagrams, hamsas and nazars, into the terse silence.

Dean's heavy hand snakes up to rest over the thud of Sam’s heart, digging at the fabric separating their skin with nails caked in rusty red and and black. The sensation is strange and more than a little unnerving, but that’s for later, all for later, now it’s survival, backed into a corner like dogs. They’ve been called worse. And every last one of the hunters circling warily around them should know better than to challenge John Winchester’s dogs.

“Sam, he’s been bitten,” Caleb says, as if there's any way Sam could possibly be here and not know that. His blood boils with the realization that they weren't even going to send for him, not even afforded the basic courtesy of saying goodbye to the only family he has left. Maybe they're smarter than he gives them credit for. Once he made it in this room, there was only one way this was ever going to end. Two, possibly, but he'd rather not gun down a room full of hunters if he can help it.

“Turned,” Pastor Jim adds, also pointless. Jo circles around behind him, doing a damn fine job of hemming them in. Her hold on the gun doesn’t look as steady as it should, though. If he’s got to push through, going for her is his best bet.

Samuel steps out from behind the Council table with Bobby. Only the two of them - apparently daybreak executions can only garner so much interest from the higher ups.

“There is only one outcome for this,” Samuel mirrors Sam's own thoughts back at him, probably with a very different 'outcome' in mind. At least he spares the pretext of caring - as if there’s more between them than genetic code. “He did your family name proud. Let him die like a hunter, Sam.”

“Sam,” Dean repeats, nothing more and nothing less. The tip of his nose weasels its way underneath the edge of Sam’s hair, inhaling so deep Sam can feel his brother's chest expand against his shoulder blades. He has to tamp down hard on the urge to jerk away from the nerve-jangling wrongness of it. One inch of space between he and Dean, one clean shot, and it’s over. Dean can go the fuck on and bite him if he wants to, Sam’s not going anywhere.

Outside there's a rush of footsteps preceding Ellen, heaving like she’s run the whole way too. Good, that’s something – two Councilmen on Sam’s side versus one opposed. Better odds. Now if he just had a fucking plan.

“Well, nice to see you boys have everything under control as usual,” she drawls, tension in every line as walks to stand next to Bobby.

Samuel looks ready to spit nails, fists clenched but unwavering. "The law’s clear."

“I’m not letting you lay a hand on my brother,” Sam growls, heart stuttering under Dean’s hand when his brother mimics it with an _actual_ growl. The whole room flinches.

Covering Dean’s fist with his own hand, Sam grips it against his sternum in what he hopes passes for reassurance to his brother’s chemical-soaked brain.

There’s enough lore in some of the old texts to guess that Dean’s got to be out of his head with it by now, riding high on brand new senses and acid-sharp blood. Later maybe he’ll bitch at Sam for putting himself at risk, but as long as his brother makes it to later he can’t bring himself to give a damn.

Sam’s only seen someone in the middle of turning once before. She’d been a teenager, five or six years older than Sam at the time, writhing in the central courtyard, more like a wildcat stuffed into a human body than the school picture that had run in the obituary the next day. He still has nightmares about it sometimes.

But that was a civilian. Hunters don’t get this far in, ever. Truth is, it’s a mark of esteem that Caleb and Jo didn’t do the job out in the field, brought Dean home to die. As if this place, anywhere, could ever be home for them.

“He’s becoming a monster.” Jo bites her lip as soon as the words are out, pale and a little bit shaky. Whatever went down on their hunt, it must have been one hell of a show.

This is why the Guild rules are bullshit. Codependent Sam’s ass, he and Dean are a team, nobody covers each other better than they do. It’s what they were raised to be. If it had been him out there watching Dean’s back, they wouldn’t be in this situation right now. He’ll take codependent any day of the week.

Sam nods, grips his brother’s hand tight enough to the feel the shape of the bones against his palm. “Then he’s my monster.”

Dean loses another low sound, less like a growl this time than a purr. It vibrates straight into Sam's skin, Dean's lips pressed against his spine sending every last instinct Sam's got into panic mode. Caleb and Jo share a look, grips tightening on their weapons, looking for a way to get to Dean before he sinks his fangs in. Throwing out every bit of his animal nature - Dean's got enough of it to cover them both at the moment - Sam pulls his brother even closer against his back.

He really could have gone the rest of his life without knowing what the hot line of Dean's cock feels like pressed against his ass. If they make it out of this, the rumor mill is going to kick into overdrive.

"There's nothing to be done, Sam," Pastor Jim argues gently, and Sam only just catches the words because at exactly that moment he feels the slick heat of Dean's tongue slide over his skin like a live wire. His stomach's churning like he just chugged a gallon of bleach with a chaser of Pop Rocks, but he can't move away, physically _can't_ , even assuming Dean would let him. Everything in him is telling him to run, everything but that one tiny sliver that's the most important part of who he is. The part that knows that without Dean, it doesn't matter what happens to him. If he's going to go down, he'll do it protecting his brother. As long as he has breath.

"Nobody's tried," Sam snaps back, venting some of the jittery adrenaline running rough-shod through his veins.

Samuel opens his mouth to counter but Sam cuts him off at the pass. "Not since the middle ages. We do all kinds of things now that they couldn't back then, why not this? There could be a cure out there now and we don't even know it. We’re never _going_ to know it if we don’t try."

Dean's open mouth molds itself to the machine-gun flutter of Sam's jugular. The pressure Sam's clutching his brother's hand with should be cracking bones but Dean doesn't even seem to notice. Bile is coating the back of Sam's tongue bitter, a deadly brand of certainty bracing him for the razor points of teeth that don't come. Instead it's just Dean's mouth, soft and wet, with a steady, sucking pressure that in another time and place - with another person - might actually feel good.

"He's not Dean anymore! Just look at him, Sam!" Caleb barks, scanning for a bead on Dean's skull as he suckles at Sam's skin like mother's milk. Sam turns his own head slightly into the press of it, rubbing his cheek against the top of Dean's head, fucking up whatever shot Caleb might have thought about firing off. Dean moans over Caleb's curse, mistaking it for encouragement.

"He'll come back. Once he's finished t-" the word is a burr in Sam's throat, "turning, he'll be back."

Bobby and Ellen are scrupulously not looking at one another but Sam can still see it in their eyes; if there's anybody on the planet who could even begin to want to save Dean as much as him, it's those two. The skin under Dean's lips heats as blood blooms close to the surface. He wonders how long Dean's been rolling his hips like that.

"It's not just for me," Sam throws out desperately. Jo will break, given a good enough excuse; she's always had it bad for Dean. Pastor Jim's almost as much of a surrogate father as Bobby and enough of a man of faith to still believe in miracles. Caleb's hung up on the rules; if one of the Council orders him to stand down he will. Samuel can fuck off and die, the old ways don't apply when it comes to executing Sam's brother.

He pushes on, words tumbling out of his mouth like a rockslide; every single last-ditch improv skill he's picked up over the years funneled into this one moment. "If we find a cure, it's for all of us, a way to save every hunter, every victim that's ever been fed vampire blood against their will. You'd never have to put anyone down again for this. We can't not take that chance."

"It can't be done," Samuel spits. That spot on Sam's neck is kind of starting to hurt, but Dean's oblivious – or worse, enjoying it - free hand drifting down to Sam's hip to pull him back into a slow, gut-churning grind.

"We don't know that!" Sam shouts back, too high and tight to come off as anything but desperate.

"He'll kill people!"

"I'll stop him."

A step too close, Dean starts to growl again at Samuel; lips still locked on Sam’s skin, tongue still working, but Sam can feel his attention has shifted, can practically see the heat shimmering out from his eyes like he means to burn the man alive. Just in case, Sam snakes his free arm back to hook around Dean and hold him close. It probably won’t be worth much if Dean decides Samuel’s trachea would make a pretty throw rug, but it’s something.

And Samuel, say whatever else about him – and there is plenty to be said – he’s at least smart enough to ease back one step. "He'll kill you."

The vibration against Sam’s neck tones it down a notch back to ticklish and pleased. "That's my risk to take."

"Not if you're unleashing him on the world, it's not!” Samuel starts pacing but he keeps the distance like there’s an invisible force field arching out around Sam. “He's got too many skills. With that kind of strength and nothing to hold him back-"

"I take full responsibility.” It’s not a plan because if it was, it would be the single worst plan Sam’s ever come up with. But once he’s said it, he’s got no inclination to take it back. “For all of it, anything he does. If he kills someone you can execute us both, two for the price of one."

He feels the spike of adrenaline through the pressure of Dean’s mouth and the roll of his hips more than in his veins. Dean’s chin is pressing against his throat hard enough to screw up his breathing, the edge of teeth a palpable threat that his brother’s still not carrying through with. At this rate Sam’s skin is going to split just from the pressure but Dean seems more interested in getting himself off against Sam ass. It’s a terrible commentary on Sam’s life that he’s counting _that_ as a blessing today.

"Sam," Ellen hisses, at the same time that Bobby warns, "Boy."

He steamrolls right over their objections and his common sense with them, too scared of what’ll catch up to him if he stops to bother with the brakes. "I do. I'll take it. If I can't control him, we’re both dead anyway."

"Don't throw your life away, Winchester," Samuel says solemnly. It isn’t the same thing at all to tenderness, but for a moment it’s not completely impossible to imagine this man remembers he’s their mother’s father.

So Sam goes for honesty, drives right for the bone with it because it’s the only weapon left in his arsenal.

"He's all I've got."

The room is quiet enough to hear every happy, wet noise Dean makes around the mouthful of Sam’s flesh he’s working, the loud grate of denim on the worn boxers Sam fell asleep in. A thousand – hell, a million – times he’s overheard Dean jacking off, could time it down to the minute in his head, but for some reason Dean’s still dragging this one out.

_This is really not the time to go developing stamina, jerk_

"I call the question.” Bobby says it like the death sentence it, in all probability, is. “The execution of Dean Winchester.”

Ellen’s mouth pulls tight but she shakes her head. "Nay."

Samuel snaps, "Aye," head turning so sharply toward Bobby Sam expects to hear something pop.

Bobby’s eyes are sad, tired so far beyond his years, even by hunter standards. They never once waver from Sam’s.

"Nay."

"We're calling a full Council!" Samuel practically roars, taking a hitched step toward Sam before Ellen gets in his way.

"The matter is decided." She shoves at his chest hard enough to back him up a few inches and the threatening step he takes toward her in retaliation is plenty to get Jo’s gun trained on him instead of Sam. Even Caleb wavers.

"Sam," Bobby grabs one of the syringes of dead-man's blood out of the pouch on Caleb's belt and tosses it over. Sam hesitates for all of a second before popping the cap off and jabbing it into Dean's neck. The edge of a fang grazes Sam's skin as his brother roars furiously for the two or three seconds it takes for him to turn to dead weight against Sam's back.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=39fbb8bc.jpg)   


Dean wakes up feeling like he got gang-banged by a herd of semi-trucks. There's not a single molecule in his body that doesn't ache like it got wailed on with a sledge hammer. Even the sound of his heartbeat is a base drum beating at the inside of his skull.

It might be a minute or a day of lying there, completely still because it hurts ever so slightly less that way, for it to occur to him that he's not breathing.

The second he does, he draws in a gasp that's so full of scents and flavors there can't possibly be any air packed into it. It smells like dirt, but not soil - human dirt, oil and skin all mixed up with road tar and fried food. Old smells, ones that have been here a long time by the way they're muddled together, a blended smear in his nostrils. The sharper scents are plastic and cotton tinged with bleach and beyond that something warm and deep, like newly turned earth heating under the afternoon sun, the hot stone of the hearth in front of a roaring fire, a soft little hollow to curl up in, molded to his body from wear; spicy and vibrant, tangy-sweet and savory. _Alive_. He can barely swallow all the saliva pooled on his tongue and his cheeks are cramping as they pump out even more of it.

It's right about then that it hits him that the heartbeat he's hearing isn't his own.

"Sam."

His eyes shoot open at the sound of his own voice, rusty as an old gate, to find a blank taupe wall. It's night, which he can't see but he knows, feels it, the same way he's always been able to find north without a compass. He draws in another breath because now that he's going, it feels natural to keep it up, and because he needs to keep drawing that scent into him like it, instead of the oxygen, is what's keeping him alive.

Moving's impossible. Literally impossible. It's like he's been working out non-stop for days, every muscle thrashed, and his body's just given up on the whole thing. At least until he hears that not-his heartbeat speed up and the brush of cloth on skin as someone on the other side of the room moves. Like there’s a leash strung from him to it, something nestled deep inside of Dean’s chest jerks, pulls him in that direction and feeds back the shape of a body, hunkered up, knees and elbows and shoulders, every line of it mapped out in the back of Dean’s head like a 3D picture.

"Sam," is the only word that jumps to mind, body protesting as he turns over. And there he is, Sammy as Dean's never seen him before.

He looks exhausted, bruise-dark circles under his eyes. The whites around hazel are bloodshot and Dean can tell by the color as much as the smell of him that there's too much caffeine in his blood, not nearly enough protein. Then he takes a moment to have a private freak out because he seriously just thought that.

"It's ok," Sam says. Dean can only assume there wasn't supposed to be a question mark clinging to the end of it.

"Ok," he parrots, eyes tracking over the shadow of stubble on Sam's jaw - individual hairs blond-shiny and obvious - getting as far as the purple mark on Sam's neck that draws him like a homing beacon before what his body's been trying to tell him all along comes crashing home like a car hurtling through the living room wall.

The hunt. The vampire nest. The sting of teeth rending his skin and the pain of cool blood seeping inside like ground glass in his veins. Nonsense flashes of the Council are almost lost among the memory of the taste of Sam. Sam tight against his body, rubbing against his cock, heartbeat under his hand. Sam hanging them both with the same noose.

"Sam!" It's broken-bottle sharp this time, the force of anger enough to propel Dean to a sitting position. Dimly he registers that he's in a motel bed, scratchy cotton boxers rubbing his skin all wrong underneath even scratchier sheets. There's not a light on in the place, and he can see like it's high noon. "What did you do? What the fuck did you do!"

Sam's face does this... thing. A weird seizure of micro-expressions and somehow Dean's brain catalogues all of them like he pushed the slow-mo button on reality. It's some freaky-ass shit is what it is. And, you know, informative. Apparently Sammy's not quite as confident about his psychotic plan as he's letting on.

"What I had to," is what Sam finally settles on and if Dean's body was capable of that much motion he'd walk over there and deck him. What the serious fuck?

"Oh, so you _had_ to let me turn? You _had_ to stick you own fucking neck out and tell them they could kill you!"

Bitchface #6 puts in an appearance, mouth tight and eyes challenging - the bane of Dean's fucking existence since Sammy hit puberty. "Yes."

"Sam! I don't, I'm not-" A push of rage backdrafts through Dean's chest, vicious and directionless, curling his fingers up tight in the sheets. "They'll _murder_ you! They'll put you down like a rabid dog!"

Standing feels like somebody split open his joints, poured in hot sand and stitched it all back up with razorwire. It's still a hell of a lot more than he would have thought he could manage and once it's done he immediately regrets it. Because that delicious, live-for-it smell? That would be Sam. His little brother Sam. And being closer to it just makes his body come alive in ways Dean's not even in the same hemisphere as prepared to deal with.

"Only if you kill someone!" Sam points out like it's some kind of fucking revelation and goddamn it, but he's moving closer. Dean digs his fingernails into his palm hard enough to hear the knuckles pop, faint taste of blood insinuating itself over his tastebuds as the throb of his gums makes itself known above the din of the other pains swamping Dean’s system.

"And you think you can stop me?!" He's absolutely sure his voice has never had that reverb before, that shiver in the air even after he's stopped yelling.

Sam steps in even closer, skirting the edge of the bed until he's near enough to touch - to grab. Dean's stuck choosing between compulsively swallowing or letting his drool spatter out on the floor.

"I think that knowing they'll kill me if you do is better than a guarantee that you won't." He's got the Grand fucking Canyon of frowns on, but Dean can see the faith in his eyes like it's got its own special color underneath the flecks of emerald and cobalt. "You'd never let that happen to me."

"Y-you. You!" he stutters out lamely, back unexpectedly up against the wall and doing his best to keep right on going when every instinct is jangling at him to _taketaketake_. "I'm a killer! I'm a predator, Sam!"

The sound that huffs out of Sam is something like a laugh. The taste of it lingers on Dean's tongue from three feet away. "So what else is new?"

"That!" He's got no intention of jolting forward, baring his fangs at his baby brother, but he is and he does and all he can feel is the way his skin itches like there are fire ants underneath it, wanting to be pressed up against Sam's. Shock-wide eyes dart to the sharp canines Dean can feel pushing out to sheathe his canines." _That's_ fucking new! I'm a blood-sucking evil creature! I eat people!"

The heat of Sam's palms pressed to either side of his face is so devastating Dean's brain actually stops functioning for a long eternity of a second. "We'll work it out," Sam promises, easy as pie. Dean barely processes it over the surging need to taste every last inch of his brother's skin. He feels like he's going to hurl he wants it so bad.

Sam moving away brings relief like lye rubbed into his marrow and all he can do is let himself fall sideways onto the bed again, praying - as if he's not already too far gone for any semblance of heaven to hear - that he won't be strong enough to get back up.

"Here," Sam digs something out of the mini-fridge under the old-school TV and chucks it at the bed. A thick plastic bag emblazoned with the Guild's seal lands with a blurble, the dark fluid inside sloshing around a siren song that makes Dean want to tear his own throat out. "O positive. I wasn't sure if you'd have a preference. Universal seemed like the safest choice."

The safest choice. Like Sam would know what that looked like if it walked up to him and bit him on the neck.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean whispers incredulously.

"Nothing."

"Nothing." There's a stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like an astronaut helmet. It's a hell of a lot easier to talk to right now than Sam. "I'm a vampire, the Guild wants us dead and you're just fine and dandy? You think that's normal?"

He's still not looking, but he knows it when Sam cocks a hip against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest; aware down to the atom of the shape of Sam's body and the space between them. "I'm sorry, what part of our lives has ever been normal? Things are just a little more complicated now."

"Complicated! Sam, I'm-"

"Six days, Dean!" He's not ready for it at all when Sam starts shouting, startled enough that he ends up screwing himself over by looking at the pissed-off, heartbroken thing Sam's got going on. "Six days watching you turn, keeping you drugged on dead-man's blood, listening to you twist and howl and say..." he stops on a choked sound Dean probably wasn't meant to hear. "I saw you stop breathing, Dean. _I. Watched. You. Die._ You really think there's a single thing you've got to say that I haven't gone over in my head a thousand times already? You really think that I give a fuck? I'll do what it takes. Even if I have to personally kill every last hunter on the planet. I'm not letting them hurt you."

It might be easier to take if Sam didn't cross the room and sit down on the bed right damn next to him but Dean doubts it. That he'd do anything for Sam has never been a question, not even a blip on Dean's radar, but no matter how many times Sam's gone to the mat for him, it never gets easier to swallow and he never knows what to do with it. It's not supposed to be Sam's job to protect him.

"... So what's the plan?"

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=67cf4ab7.jpg)   


It shouldn't even be audible over the dull roar of the TV and the entire room between them but it's all Sam can focus on. That infernal crunching, like an accusation. A big 'fuck you' to their established reality. Dean's powers of denial will never cease to amaze.

"Dean."

His brother doesn't respond, a silent shape against the backlit sienna curtains covering the window. They've been able to fudge some on the sunlight problem, thank God - as long as it's not direct light, things are tolerable at least, so they aren’t on complete diurnal lockdown. He suspects it hurts more than Dean's willing to let on, but so far they don’t have any reason to go out during the daytime anyway so there hasn’t been much point in arguing about it. Not that that’s actually stopped them.

They’re both going stir-crazy. Staying in one place has never been a forte for them, brought up on blacktop and the rush of scenery past the windows. The few weeks a year they’ve always been forced to stay with the Guild - just long enough to keep up appearances, not make it look like they get away with flagrantly flouting the rules quite as much as they actually do - have always been a special kind of torture, all capped off now by being stuck in a 13x13 room.

At least this time he’s got Dean instead of being stuffed away in the Seer dorms. It’s supposed to promote his abilities, being surrounded by other people like him, but Sam’s honestly always wondered if it’s not just that what the Seers can do is a little too close to non-human for any of the ‘regular’ hunters to want to sleep near them. He can’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up that way, sequestered away for special training as soon as his first vision hit when he was nine, never able to spar or hunt or just hang around with Dean. It wouldn’t have even been like they were really brothers, just strangers with the same blood. For all the disdain it may have earned them in the community, that’s one part of the way their father raised them that Sam will never regret.

_Crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch._

Alright, mostly never regret. Sometimes Dean makes it hard to remember why.

"Dean!"

The yell startles his brother enough that the jumbo M&M bag he's in the process of reaching for gets smushed under his palm instead, candy shells popping inside plastic from the force. This whole 'Dean has really sensitive hearing' thing does have its advantages.

"What?" he gripes, grimacing at his ruined chocolate.

There’s a temper in his voice that Sam can feel echoed in his own. It’s oppressive in air gone stale from too many hours locked up tight, taking up the space between them like a literal elephant plunked down in the middle of the room. A whole herd of elephants for that matter.

Dean has been less than amenable to what he’s calling ‘the soylent green situation’. Sam can't exactly blame him, but pretending it isn't happening won't help matters. Which is really what's making all that goddamn, _motherfucking **crunching**_ wear on Sam's last nerve.

"You have to eat something," Sam says, hoping it comes off more exasperated than pissy. He really does not need another snarky comment about PMS.

It must not work because he earns himself a glare and a snort. "I _was_ , dickwad."

Dean dejectedly studies a partially crushed M&M between his fingers, sullenly pops it into his mouth.

"You know what I mean."

Another huff - that is really getting old fast - and Dean goes back to pretending to ignore Sam so hard it’s like the room is buzzing with it. His posture is an easy sprawl across the bed, every ounce tension jammed into his eyes and the tight line of his stubbornly working jaw.

Discovering that he could eat people food – and not just ‘people’ food – has been a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, Dean’s a lot less sulky about it than he could be under the circumstances – Dean will forever deny that he can sulk, swears that’s Sam’s department, but Sam knows his brother too well to fall for that.

The downside is that Dean figuring out that his body can handle regular food means he’s been actively avoiding anything to do with the B-L-double-O-D word and that’s a problem because it also turns out that while he _can_ eat food, it doesn't do much about the forlorn sounds his stomach keeps making. He'd chewed his way through five snack bags of Cheetos from the motel vending machine before Sam ran out of dollar bills and categorically refused to drive to a convenience store to get a jumbo bag. It took six hours to get Dean to admit that maybe cheese-flavored powder is not a blood substitute. At which point his brother suggested Twinkies.

Sam had ultimately been willing to give a meat-lovers pizza a shot, because at least animal products were on the same spectrum as what Dean really needed. His brother chomped his way through an extra-large, failing miserably at hiding the unhappy set of his shoulders when it obviously wasn’t working.

He still won’t touch the blood bag, though and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that that’s a problem.

Sam thinks he’s done a decent job of pretending not to notice the way Dean’s eyes track him, the way occasionally he’ll lick his lips and just as quickly blanch, like he’s suddenly realized what he was contemplating. He can’t fathom what it’s like, what Dean’s feeling, and his brother doesn’t seem inclined to share about any particular draw he might feel to the lingering bruise on Sam’s neck. Then again, Sam doesn’t exactly ask either. Some things are better left unaddressed.

While Dean’s been busy acting like everything is business as usual, Sam’s been splitting his time between backtracking every vague mention of a rumor of a theory about vampire cures - from the Guild archives, from the web, from anywhere he can pick up even a scrap of information - and keeping tabs on Dean’s progression.

They’ve learned that evidently, luckily, Dean doesn’t need to eat – drink, whatever – every day, although otherwise his biological processes are much the same. He still has to shower and shave and pee just like he always has, which is interesting, but Sam can’t get any more specific details because then Dean gets huffy about not being a lab rat and burns Sam’s notes. He’s got them all copied over in a Word doc, but he’s not pointing that out for fear of losing the laptop too.

In terms of physical ability, Dean’s been a lot more reticent about how things are developing but Sam’s had more than enough time to observe him to have worked out at least some of it. He seems to have very acute hearing now, maybe even moreso than Sam’s best guess since he occasionally reacts to things Sam can’t even pick up on when he’s straining for it.

The nightsight Dean might actually have not noticed since he certainly seems to be oblivious to the pitch blackness when he wanders restlessly around the room in the dark hours before dawn while Sam lays in bed and tries to make himself sleep. Dean doesn’t seem to need nearly as much rest as he used to, though he does doze off for an hour or two at a time in the middle of the day, tossing and turning fitfully. Sam’s been wondering if maybe it’s the hunger keeping Dean awake, but again, his brother won’t talk about it.

Smell also seems to be a thing, and this one Dean’s obviously aware of, just as he’s obviously trying to ignore it. Not doing a very good job either with the way he perks up anytime somebody walks past their room, nostrils flared, fingers clenched in the sheets. That one has Sam worried more than any of the others.

There hasn’t been any meaningful documentation on a turn in close to three hundred years, but there are some reports from the time of new vampires having a period of being almost like their human selves before going rabid with the need to feed. He’s hoping some of that is a virtue of the victims not having access to blood - any animal, human or otherwise, will eventually go crazy if denied food long enough - and not some intrinsic part of the process of becoming a vampire, but naturally the Guild promptly executed any turns who went feral, so he hasn’t got solid data to base that on.

The dreams aren’t helping the matter.

He keeps getting these flashes, partially formed little things, not quite like a true vision but with enough visceral quality that he can’t just write it off as the musings of his subconscious either. Dean with his mouth stained red, crimson running over his fangs, down his chin, spattering on peachy-colored tile Sam doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t know what to make of it but it doesn’t feel like a good thing. He hasn’t figured out a way to bring it up with Dean - the last thing Dean needs is to think that Sam’s losing faith in him.

The most interesting tidbit they’ve come across in the going-on-a-week they’ve been stuck here is that, despite appearances, Dean still has a heartbeat. It’s slow, only every couple of minutes, and then so faint that even with Sam’s fingers pressed right over Dean’s pulse, he can only barely feel it. It’s startling. Admittedly Sam’s never done any extensive study on vampires before now, but he’s never heard anything about them having heartbeats and he hasn’t found any record of one ever being observed before.

It births a hope, a whisper of one as fine and delicate as spun sugar. Dean might not actually be dead. It’s not a thought Sam shares with his brother, the same way he knows his brother isn’t sharing that exact same one with him. Hope and the Winchesters have a tumultuous relationship, and they don’t want to give it any reason to prove them wrong.

For the first time since Sam stuck his name on the execution list beside Dean’s, he’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t going to kill them both.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=2de09c76.jpg)   


Dean can smell it when Sam touches the bag, even that tiny bit of jostling enough to have the scent of blood blooming in the air. The sudden urge to blow chunks is almost enough to cover the surge of want that charges through his body. It doesn’t even make sense, the bag is air tight, but still.

“No means no, Sam.” He tries to keep his voice flat, tamp down that trembling gurgley thing it wants to do as his gums swell and ache, fangs fighting to pop free. He licks at the abraded flesh, his own blood a weak, sickening balm on raw nerves.

“Of course it does,” Sam says, carrying the bag over to the cracked formica counter of the motel room’s kitchenette. He rinses out the paper cup from his coffee this morning - they’ve long since run out of the tiny stack next to the complimentary coffee pot and there’s no way in fuck they’re letting the maid in to get more - and dries it with one of the flimsy paper napkins that came with the pizza however many days ago. Not so much as glancing at Dean, he pulls his pocket knife and makes a small slit at the top of the bag.

The effect is instantaneous. Every muscle in Dean’s body snaps taught like he’s having a fucking seizure, tension like fire licking at his joints and tendons as they bunch all on their own, ready to spring.

“Sam,” comes out less of a warning, less of a fucking _word_ , than he’d planned. Sam turns the bag up to pour a long, thin ribbon of liquid into the cup and sticks into in the microwave. That probably violates a literal fuck-ton of health codes.

Dean doesn’t remember moving but then all of a sudden he’s standing right there beside Sam, watching the muted flower design on the cup turn around in the ocher light of the microwave.

The blue lines of the timer blink DONE and Sam pushes the button to pop the door open. He glances at Dean, waits, doesn’t do any fucking thing like he doesn’t know that hot, rich smell curling on the air is making the tips of Dean’s fingers itch. Finally he reaches in and picks it up, long fingers making the cup look tiny as he sets it down on the counter in front of Dean.

The room is vibrating, he can feel it, dull hum of recirculated air pumping in from the window unit, tinny clang of the television speakers, buzz of electricity in the walls. Beyond he can sense people, other heartbeats, other scents, shampoos and sweat and industrial cleaning solvents. Hard to focus on that with his universe anchored somewhere in the space between his brother’s thrumming, hot, alive body and the reflection of his worried face in the blood-black surface of the cup.

Sam swallows, a heavy, dry, click of smooth muscle on muscle. He needs to take better care of himself, too much damn time staring at the computer, not enough food or water or sleep. He doesn’t have any practical experience at all, but he knows Sam’s blood would be thick, dehydrated, the same way he knows what a rock tastes like even though he’s never put one in his mouth.

“Too hot?” Sam asks. If Dean couldn’t hear the way he can now, he’d totally miss the tremor of Sam’s voice.

He means to say something back, snarky or pissy or just flat out mad but when he opens his mouth the taste of blood and Sam pastes itself to his tastebuds from the dense air and he gets stuck grinding the flavor into the roof of his mouth like he can absorb it through his flesh.

And then Sam - fucking dumbass Sammy with his goddamn death wish - dips the tip of one long finger into the cup. It drags free shiny-slick, scarlet pitting in Sam’s cuticle, crawling into the trench under the white of his nail, one slow drop going heavy on the pad and pulling, growing, threatening to drip.

Dean thinks the snarl that comes out of him has something like ‘douchebag’ hidden in the depths but he doubts Sam caught it, doesn’t even care because he’s too busy sucking every scrap of liquid DNA out of the whorls of Sam’s fingerprint to pay attention to anything else.

It’s not tasty, not really, not in any meaningful way. It’s more like beer, how foul that first sip he snuck when he was eight was, couldn't imagine why anyone would drink that on purpose but now there are few things in the world better than a cold one. Or there used to be. Dean may have to reevaluate his definitions now that he’s licked blood off of Sam’s skin.

Sam’s hand is pressing against Dean’s face, hard maybe - it’s tough to tell now that he’s so much stronger. Trying to pull away, Dean realizes after a second. The noise he makes about it is completely alien to him, nothing like anything he has a name for and it’s that that shocks him into letting Sam yank his hand free.

It hits him to say something thoughtful or at the very least apologetic but anything specific that he might come up with gets snagged on these errant scraps of thought; Sam spread eagle on the floor with messy patterns painted red on his skin for Dean to mouth away and Sam with his head thrown back as the milky light from the lamp catches on the ladder of his bared throat and Sam pressing Dean’s face to his skin letting him have a taste of that perfect scent that buzzes around the inside of his skull like a beehive night and day, fresh from the source. Words don’t matter anyway because it might feel like it drags on forever but it can only be a second before Sam’s back pressing the lip of the cup to Dean’s mouth, heady, warm blood almost enough to drown out the latent stink of shitty coffee.

He doesn’t bother to take it for himself, just open his mouth and lets Sam tip a hot rush of life into him that makes his belly cramp up with hunger. Gulps it down in a hurry that scalds his throat and takes more, more. Little drizzles of it escape the corners of his mouth and ooze, oil-slick over his skin, too ravenous to even care about the picture he makes, making a mess of himself as Sam feeds him like a baby, like a feral animal that followed him home, hands on Sam’s hips, hard-on shoved against his thigh.

That last part doesn’t register until the cup echoes his own desperate breath back in his face with an empty rattle of thick paper on sharp incisors. Once he does, it’s a jolt to the system, but not the kind he would have thought if he’d ever once thought about this. He feels overheated under his skin, right under it, like someone took the empty shell of him and filled it up with boiling water. It makes the world sloshy and surreal, a weird-good mix of drunk off his ass and that sharp clarity that comes after too many nights without sleep and the dopey, perfect thrill of that time in Memphis he spent a whole night tumbling around in bed with two girls and some dude they knew, all of them rolling hard on E.

“Fuck, hang on, I’ll heat up some more,” Sam says. His voice is about twice as steady as it was earlier which is a better indicator that he’s panicking than the flicker of his pulse waving hello at Dean from the soft spot under his jaw.

It moves even faster when Dean leans in to rub a kiss into it, a thundering massage against the tip of his tongue. The only thing that would make it better is if Sam would stop squirming so damn much, wriggling around like a worm on a hook.

Well, not the _only_ thing, but it would be really good, anyway. Luckily, it’s not all that tough to hold Sam still if he wants to now, especially when he uses the cabinet to his advantage and presses Sam back until he has to either sit on it or get mushed into the formica. It makes for a nice angle to rub himself up against the space between Sam’s legs, all warm friction of Sam’s jeans against his, both of them dressed like they’ve got somewhere to go.

He gets the sense that Sam might be talking to him or something; he’s sort of stopped paying attention to anything that isn’t the flirt of Sam’s vein against his tongue and how, if he sucks at it a little, he can taste the richness of his brother through skin. At least until the faint hint of Sam gets swept away under a flood of that bizarrely impersonal but still mouth-watering blood from the bag.

Dean licks his way up the spilled trail of it across Sam’s throat until his lips find the rim of the cup again and Sam’s urging him to swallow with little coos that Dean’s so going to give him shit about later.

It becomes a rhythm, Dean finishing a cup, tracing lip prints onto Sam’s skin with his red mouth while Sam pours up more with sticky, stained fingers and heats it. His hands find their way under Sam’s shirt, searching for all of the little ticklish places that make Sam’s heartbeat skitter and the spicy anxiety pumping through him spike. Spots he used to know better than any road map, back when they were younger and people didn’t stare so much when they touched. People are dickwads; touching Sam is awesome, he’s going to do it more from now on.

He’s starting to get a little queasy, maybe too full. Dad had always taught them not to eat too much after if they’ve had to go without, maybe it’s the same kind of thing with vampires. Still he can’t resist when Sam brings up the cup again and says, “This is all of it.” He gulps it right down with the rest, feels it settle heavy and not quite right in the pit of his stomach.

“You ok?” Sam’s voice is much softer now, his fingers tentatively cupping the back of Dean’s neck. He’s just breathing against Sam’s chest now, relishing his smells and sounds and heat. Sam’s always run so hot. They used to try and send him home any time he went to the nurses office at school because he always registered a fever. Dean’s heard it’s a Seer thing but he’s not sure if that’s true, how Dad could have overlooked it Sam’s whole childhood if it was.

He doesn’t remember to answer for a long while. When he does, it sounds dazed, dreamy. “Yeah. You feel good.”

Sam clears his throat again, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. Never really liked growing facial hair, always used to complain it itched. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

He goes for that same scooting back thing he kept trying to pull earlier, edging his hips away from Dean’s enough that Dean becomes aware again of the full flush of his cock. Still hard, but it’s not the desperate, gotta fuck now kind of hard. More like he wants to lay around and rub up against somebody, lazy and slow, all afternoon. Sort of like he’s been doing for the last half hour or so. With his brother.

“Oh, dude!” Dean jerks back so fast that he ends up taking himself out at the knees when he stumbles against Sam’s bed and topples onto it. It smells like Sam and the too much time he’s spent in it the last few days of nearly constant research. It’s not really helping Dean’s situation at all and seriously, fuck his body for the smell of his fucking brother becoming a turn-on.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is worried, uncertain, but he doesn’t quite get down from the counter. He’s a mess; hair already a couple of days dirty rucked up like Dean might’ve been running his fingers through it without noticing, color high on his cheeks still nothing to the rusty smears of it over his throat and chin, dribbles down the front of his shirt. There’s a smudge of it at the very corner of his mouth and just like that Dean gets a gut-punch memory of his tongue swiping across it, digging into the little dip for the faintest clear-water taste of Sam’s saliva.

The ocean of liquid in his stomach turns to a whirlpool, swirl slowly creeping up the back of his throat like it’s all going to come right back up again. Thickly he swallows it back, hops the space between their beds and slides across his own until he’s got the whole length of the room and still not nearly enough space between him and the tempting thrum of blood in Sam’s veins.

“I told you. I fucking told you!” comes out of his throat like wet metal grinding together. His fangs nick his lips and his stomach curls in on itself, combination of the taste and the feeling, pain and pleasure centers fucked to hell or maybe just not two different things any more.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t waited so damn long!” Sam shouts back, easing himself down off the counter now. Of course Dean’s eyes zero right in on the fact that he’s hard too, thick shape of his dick heavy in his jeans. And he would be, naturally. Dean was all up in his business rubbing on him like a cat in heat, Sam’d have to react to the friction, doesn’t have any more control over his cock than Dean does.

Burying his face in his hands doesn’t actually make it any easier, but at least he doesn’t have to work so hard to avoid eye contact. “Never again, Sam!”

“It’ll be easier next time,” his brother says, like he just spontaneously went deaf. He used to pull that all the time with Dad and it still makes Dean want to punch him in the face. It’s kind of a refreshing change from the other stuff he suddenly wants to be doing to him.

“Sam!”

“Dean.” The set of his shoulders says Sam’s not budging, stubborn, mulish look plastered all over his face. Trying to argue him down when he’s in this mood’ll work about as well as defusing a nuclear weapon with a toothpick - Dean could have a fucking PhD in Sammy’s moods - so he doesn’t bother for the time being. Just lowers himself down to sit on the floor, back still pressed tight against the wall and tries like hell not to watch it like a porno when Sam wets a paper napkin in the sink and starts wiping the red stains off of his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=1ecb10a4.jpg)

Sam has always hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptic, the constantly freezing air, the way they all inevitably look like cookie-cutter labyrinths, nothing but the color scheme really changing from one to the next to the next. The Guild tattoos on their chests could get them free treatment at the best facilities in the country but Sam’s never trusted a neat, even set of clinical stitches as much as he does dental floss and a quilting needle in Dean’s hands. Some of that is probably their father talking, paranoid son of a bitch looking for something fanged and deadly out of the corner of his eye every waking second, never willing to put his trust in anyone, even his own sons, if he could avoid it. It’s almost enough to make Sam laugh, thinking about his dad’s face if he knew that Dean’s the toothy, vicious something now. He wonders if that would be worse than when Sam had his first vision.

He straightens his jacket across his shoulders and fights the urge to fuss with it. They don’t bother much with the official uniforms, brought up to value stealth and subterfuge more than authority. Still, it has its uses.

“Hi,” he says, stepping up to the busy nurses’ station, trying to loom just enough to look imposing without giving anybody the creeps. This will probably go easier if everybody just plays friendly.

The woman manning the desk is in her mid-thirties, brown hair with a few wisps of artificial blonde sprinkled through. She’s a little pudgy, purple scrubs pulling slightly over her chest as she sits up straighter, eyes round, taking him in. They probably don’t get a lot of hunters in a little out of the way clinic like this, part of the reason Sam had picked it in the first place. The Council may have ruled on the matter but he can think of half a dozen guys off the top of his head who might not be opposed to using Dean’s condition as an excuse to take the Winchesters out, another handful who’d do it on principle for letting something like Dean live.

“Sir.” She clears he throat nervously, one hand fluttering over a stack of papers without actually doing anything to them. “How can I help you?”

Sam tugs at the deep red collar of his shirt to flash the Key of Solomon inked under his collarbone. Hard to tell whether that makes the nurse more or less nervous, but he definitely made an impression. Just as well - this place is twenty miles in the opposite direction that he means to take from the motel, if anybody comes looking, it’s a good enough start on a wild goose chase.

“I need to commandeer a pint of O- and one of O+, please.” Might as well spice up the menu, he figures - humans need a balanced diet, maybe a little variety will help with that green around the gills look Dean’s been sporting more and more lately.

“Of course. I’ll get you a kit.”

“No, that’s fine. Just the blood please.”

Sam could time how fast the color drains out of the nurse’s face in milliseconds. For all that the average civie respects the Guild, to most of them hunters are one step up from the things they exterminate. Sometimes Sam resents that, but for every time it chaps his ass, there’s another when that makes his life easier. Very few things in the world motivate somebody to shut up and stop asking questions quite as effectively as fear.

“Right. I’ll just... I’ll get that for you right away.”

Outside of Beaumont there's a bokor who’s been a port of call for hunters for years now. An ear to the ground type who supposedly knows a thing or two about the line between life and death. Technically speaking, the practice of voodoo is grounds for a nice, long chat with one of the Guild Interrogators, but party line or not, the reality is hunters have always relied on some of the sketchier sides of humanity to do their job and this guy has a decent reputation in the community. It's as good an idea as any and, if Sam's being honest, he’s run dry on anything else that could pass for a lead.

He’s been doing the best he can, picking at bits and pieces of intel from library lore and some of the less reputable contacts they’ve made over the years. Bobby’s been doing his best to feed Sam information when he can, furtive calls made from payphones just in case anyone has decided to take a personal interest in Dean’s case, but so far everything’s come up dry. If anyone’s ever tried what they’re doing before, it’s been so long that even the Guild records have forgotten. _Or else it went so badly they destroyed all evidence of it,_ the analytical part of his brain whispers. Sam’s gotten pretty good at ignoring it by now.

The lack of progress hasn’t done anything to improve Dean’s mood. He oscillates randomly between sullen and bitchy, particularly since it became obvious that Sam would be the one handling the daytime driving. He has at least agreed to stay hunkered down in the backseat of the Impala under a blanket during the brightest hours of the day. Whines about it like he just discovered it's his true purpose in life, but he's agreed.

The real problem is that since then, Dean’s only been will to give in and- and _feed_ when he’s desperate, which so far has only happened twice. It’s been a month. Sam’s not really clear on the timeline of vampire diets, but going by the little tells his brother doesn’t seem to notice he’s giving away, it looks like a month is pushing it.

As predicted, Dean’s more recent feedings have been a lot less _eventful_ than the first. And no, they're not talking about that one. They’ve spent ninety percent of their lives within ten feet of each other, so it’s not like Sam isn’t passingly familiar with the more private aspects of Dean’s anatomy. Hell, he spent the majority of his adolescence sharing a bed with Dean in cramped motel rooms connect-the-dotting the US, so it’s a far cry from the first time he’s had casual contact with those parts of Dean’s physique, or vice versa. Probably the first time they were both awake and sober for the experience. And vampire drives have always been a little mingled to the best of their understanding; sex and food all mixed up together so maybe they should have seen that coming. Still, Sam could happily go the rest of his life without discussing whatever that was. Dean seems to feel the same way about it, even if he has a strange way of showing it.

Actually, that’s not entirely fair, since Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s gotten a little obsessive about touching Sam. Sometimes it’s something as small as their shoulders bumping when they walk or brushing against each other as they trade out the bathroom and others it’s more... well, just more. Dean’s fingertips sneaking inside Sam’s shirt cuffs to trace over the thin skin at his wrist or knuckles dragging at the spot where the print of his mouth has finally faded from Sam’s neck. How he doesn’t notice that, Sam can’t begin to guess but like hell is he going to be the one to bring up that world of awkward. Dean hasn’t tried anything on him, and that’s the main thing. Unless staring at him while he sleeps qualifies, which Sam chooses to ardently believe it doesn’t.

The night they finally got brave enough to venture outside to test Dean’s resolve – Sam with a small silver chain and their last vial of dead-man’s blood in his jacket pocket just in case – it became obvious that Dean has significantly less will power when it comes to people he’s not related to. It’s not really the rabid attacking Sam had been afraid of, in fact it’s a lot more like somebody slipped Dean an aphrodisiac.

His eyes turn heavy lidded, wet but not hazy. Sam's seen his brother level that look at girls before, he's just never seen it turned so indiscriminately on anything with a pulse. He's always given Dean a hard time about his sex life, the constant flirting, the one night stands; if he'd known how bad it could be, he'd have kept his mouth shut all of these years.

Honestly, they're lucky Dean looks the way he does - it's probably the only thing that kept them from being arrested when Dean trapped the girl working the register at the 7-11 back in Nebraska against the counter. If she'd had half a brain, she would have screamed, but instead she’d mostly looked disappointed she didn't get her underwear around her knees before Sam dragged his brother back outside by the scruff of his neck.

The nurse comes back with an insulated bag for the blood. It’s slightly cool to the touch so she must have thrown in an ice pack too. He’s got a cooler set up in the footwell of the back seat on the off chance that Dean decides he feels like a snack, but he appreciates the thoughtfulness nonetheless.

Sam puts some extra effort into making his smile more friendly when he thanks her and signs ‘Angus Young’ to the release form.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=9d253722.jpg)

The smell of sage and silver burns in Dean’s nostrils for three blocks before they walk up to the storefront. The closer they get, the stronger it is, mixing up with more herbs, dust, candle wax, poultry, the smell of crisp sunshine still clinging to the concrete in the first cool hours of evening. Harder to pick up but somehow more obvious, more distinct, is the scent of blood, human and not, fresh and flaky-dried. It prickles like hot needles on the inside of his throat where his body clutches at it, stomach twisting, limbs shaking the same way they have been for days on end. It must not be enough of a tremble for Sam to have picked up on it or they’d have fought about it by now - how Dean’s getting worse, weaker, making himself sick, has to eat, _goddamnit, Dean, will you just drink the damn blood already?_

He keeps right on breathing because fuck this guy anyway. Him and Dean’s stupid body.

It’s an old-world building, probably made to be a dress shop or something going by the big front windows crowded with sashes and curios under the scratched-paint lettering promising ‘Homeopathic Healing’. Douchey little windchimes tinkle when Sam pushes open the door, leading the way even though he damn well knows that’s Dean’s job. Was his even before he got all supernaturally fast and strong. Which, ok, is pretty cool. He might actually miss that part if they find a way to get him out of this. _Once_ they find a way of getting him out of this, Sam would say. Dean’s not contradicting him. Not yet anyhow.

Just in case, he flips the lock on the front door and pulls the shade.

The city’s not exactly coastal, but it’s close enough that there’s a bayou tilt on the drawl of, “Be right with y’all,” that calls out to them from the back room.

Dean shoots Sam a look over a case full of crystals. It looks like touristy kind of stuff, Office Depot for all your witchy-wannabe, ‘cast a love spell on the high school quarterback’ needs. Then again, anything actually worth a damn could land him in a cell at the local Guild so it probably wouldn’t be out here on display if this guy really is halfway decent.

Somewhere deeper in the shop a door closes on creaky hinges, light footsteps - hundred forty, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, small feet, slight, easy prey - on smooth wood floors heading their way. Dean earns himself a glare sidling over to make sure he’s the first thing anybody coming through that bead-covered door to the back of the shop faces down but Sammy can get over it. If Dean’s stuck as a walking weapon, he sure as fuck is going to put it to good use.

The beads clack together as a slim middle-aged guy steps into the room, wiping his hands on a little green apron as he goes. Whatever Dean was expecting some badass voodoo priest to look like, fucking Howdy Doody here wasn’t it.

The guy’s eyes - blue with a slice of brown in the bottom corner of the left one - stutter over the locked door, the blocked view, _Dean_ , quick enough that he wonders if Sam even caught it. There’s nothing specific Dean’s been able to point out to himself as distinctly ‘other’ but he can’t deny that there’s something a little off, or maybe a little _more_ somehow. He’s not sure, but if this guy picked up on it that fast he might just turn out to know something after all.

Dean tamps down viciously on the flutter in his stomach that feels far too much like hope. It’s probably just hunger anyway.

“Gentlemen,” Carrot-top says, eyes flittering between the two of them, “What can I do for you this fine evening?”

He’s on edge, wary, aiming for casual but the stillness in his movements is as dead a giveaway as a deer freezing up at the sound of leaves rustling. The harsh rasp of the silver in the air stinging Dean’s lungs helps to tamp down the way his body responds to the stink of nerves, flushes like a fever under his skin.

Sam takes one pointed side step that leaves him standing next to Dean instead of behind him. That ‘tied to Sammy’ thing inside Dean’s chest tugs and he bites back the low noise that wants to shake free with an effort. He doesn’t notice it so much when they’re by themselves, but out in public, it’s harder to deal with, some base part of Dean’s brain insisting that truckers and librarians and that sketchy looking three-pound dog over there might be a threat to his brother’s safety.

“We have a medical issue that needs taking care of. We heard through the grapevine that you had some experience in the area.”

“Well, I have some very effective herbal remedies,” the bokor lays a hand on top of a case full of little vials of variously colored powders, leaves a foggy streak of sweat and heat imprinted on the glass. Guy’s awful edgy considering what he does for a living, but then again, he doesn’t strike Dean as the sort to get his hands dirty, probably more like a paranormal wikipedia than somebody who’d wring a chicken’s neck for you. He probably wouldn’t still have this nice little shop of his if he did more than talk, though. “But there are certain issues that are better suited to a qualified physician.” He’s looking so hard and unwavering at Sam it makes Dean bristle with the implied stare.

Sam takes another step closer, because it’s his mission in life to make things hard on Dean. “It’s not the kind of infection antibiotics can help with.”

“I’d surmised as much.”

Another step. Another tug-tug-tug in his chest and Dean’s got to do something about it or that awareness strung between him and Sam is going to yank something out of joint.

Without thinking about it - which probably means he moved way too fast for a person, but it’s not like things were exactly under wraps here anyway - he finds himself up in the guy’s space, all of a quarter of an inch closer than Sam already was.

“Look, can you do anything or not?” The growl leaks through in his voice. He knows it, can hear it, smell it in the hot burst of fear tunneling under the bokor’s skin, hear it in the kick of Sam’s pulse and the shift of his feet on the worn wood floor, stance at the ready like he could possibly need to protect Dean from this guy. Could possibly stop him if he decided that shopkeep sounds like a tasty nibble. For once that might work to their advantage - Dean might not want to take a bite of longpig, but ginger here doesn’t need to know that.

Not for the first time in recent days, Dean becomes aware of his hand on Sam’s hip. Not for the first time, he pretends he doesn’t notice.

The bokor does, though. Less than a glance, but he picks up on it, disapproves, Dean thinks, by the flicker of expression on his face. “That depends on what you’re looking for.”

Sam hesitates for a second before he’s reaching up and tugging aside the collar of his shirt to show the Guild tattoo. The sight makes the bokor’s eyes go wide, wider yet when Dean does the same.

“Well, that’s a first on me.” Whether he means to or not, it comes across intrigued. “This is...” he looks to Sam, “sanctioned?”

This time it’s Sam’s hand on Dean’s hip, long fingers digging into muscle through denim until Dean relents and lets himself be pulled back so that they’re on level again, arms brushing. It’s not quite as hard not to rip somebody’s throat out and use it as a drinking fountain when he’s touching Sam; that nauseous, wanting roll quieting down enough to cope with.

“Consider it a clinical trial.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re looking to try?”

“A cure. Or any information that might lead to one.”

The guy hums something that might be understanding and eases himself back to lean against one of the big floor-to-ceiling shelves that line the walls. Outside the light is fading out, washing everything lilac toward the greyscale Dean sees in at night instead of the dimness of failing light. It makes him wonder how Sam sees it, if he’s as aware as Dean of the big blue eyes sizing them up. Maybe that’s this guy’s real talent, he thinks, picking apart people’s tells, watching for the dirty little secrets they write with their clothes and bodies and words.

Dean’s spent most of his life learning that skill, infinitely better at it now that there’s so much more his senses can pick up on. The long blond hair stuck to the hem of the bokor’s apron, tucked on the inside so it’s not a customer; girlfriend more like, since he’s not getting it often to be paying for it. How he knows how much tail the guy’s getting Dean’s less sure of beyond the fact that he can feel it in his gut and he’s been taught well enough to trust that. Vegetarian. Mixes the herbs for the shop himself, powder under his nails and shallow scrapes from thorns and branches on his fingertips. Owns a bird.

He wonders what the bokor is picking up about them.

Whatever it is, it has him breathing out heavily, diesel-leaded, after a long silence, “Like I said, a qualified physician is what you need.”

He crosses around behind the glass cases to toss a nervous glance through the darkened window as if anybody could have snuck up on them without Dean noticing. “I’ve heard rumors about a doctor who does research on this kind of thing. If anybody’s got a way to do it, that’s your best bet. But my two cents?” When he turns back to them, the look he levels has just the faintest edge of pity in it. “If there was cure, we’d all know about it by now.”

It isn’t until Sam pulls away that Dean realizes he was playing with his brother’s fingers. “This doctor, where?”

“Up north somewheres.” He bokor shrugs and just like that he’s back to grating at Dean’s will to keep him warm and breathing. “I think it was an M state.”

“You son of a-”

Dean’s not planning to lunge - he’s got to get a handle on this cat-like reflexes thing - but then he’s got the scrawny little fucker pinned to the wall by his throat, every flex of muscle and tendon against his palm singing through his system to the chorus of _do it, do it, do it_ nesting at the base of his brain stem. He’s not, like, superhero fast though, because Sam’s on him almost as quick. Can’t do much of anything, but he’s on him, one arm crossed over Dean’s chest to try and reel him back in.

It’s not enough this time. Sam touch doesn’t so much blunt the need as make it swerve, eddying around under Dean’s skin like a caged beast, ravenous, with the bokor’s pulse licking at his fingertips like a tease. He wants it, Sam’s blood, this guy’s, both together, with an intensity he can feel pumping through his marrow, sending thin cascades of sweet-tinged red slithering down his teeth as the fangs pop free. There’s a part of him that’s still with it, still knows why he shouldn’t do this, can’t, _Sam-Sam-Sam_ , but it’s locked in the trunk with duct tape slapped over its mouth and something else is behind the wheel, ripping a noise like a roar up out of the pit of his gut before it suddenly twists into a yowl as sparks flare across his face.

There’s nothing more than instinct to it when he ducks away, ends up sprawled on the floor on top of Sam but the sharp-hot burn roving his skin like literal fire sweeps away the urge that was there a minute ago to see what his brother tastes like on the inside. Slowly it dulls to simmering little spots he’d swear he can hear sizzling - and maybe he can, given the way Sam’s watching him; maybe he’s doing that freaky fucking vamp healing thing that’s always so damn annoying on a hunt - but it’s enough of a reprieve to let him focus again, knocked back into control by pure shock.

The bokor is on the other side of the room, watching almost blithely if it weren’t for the machete in his hand. It’s edged in silver, Dean can feel it from here, and there’s more of it in whatever that powder is the guy is idly sifting his fingers through in the front pocket of his apron. Alright, there’s a chance Dean hasn’t been giving this dude enough credit.

“You’d be amazed the kind of things this stuff’ll scare off,” he smirks, drawing up another palmful and letting it filter back into his pocket like a blackened-green hourglass, little flecks of metal winking mockingly at Dean from a distance. He doesn’t try anything tricky, though, stays just where he is as Dean and Sam manage to untangle themselves and get back to their feet, neither one of them taking their eyes off of him for an instant. Instead, he’s back to doing his sizing up thing and it occurs to Dean that he hasn’t actually bothered to turn on a light besides the couple of guttering candles on the bookshelves.

There’s a chance Dean’s been giving this dude _way_ too little credit. Man could have made a fortune with those kind of acting chops.

“Are you eating?” He’s asking Dean but his eyes are occupied with Sammy in a way that makes that dark, angry thing curled up too close to the surface of Dean decide that the time is right for another low growl.

“You volunteering?”

“Dean.” This time it’s just Sam’s voice warning him off, not a bit of him touching anywhere, but it’s still too close for something warm-blooded to be with Dean in the state he’s in. He’d tell Sam that too, except he’s busy fighting the urge to grab him by the hair and rub all over him. Dean is really not a fan of this particular new side of himself.

Nothing about him has really changed but there’s something about the bokor’s smirk that makes it seem like he’s doing it harder, enjoying watching Dean squirm. “I only ask because I’ve known of a few individuals who thought they were smart enough to get around this sort of predicament. But seeing as you boys are professionals I’m sure there’s no need to worry about that, is there? You clearly know just what you’re doing. I’m sure those shakes you’ve got aint anything to worry about.”

Fuck if he’s not right too. Dean hadn’t even picked up on it until now, almost used to it after how long it’s been going on, but the shaking’s worse, quivers stuttering through his body hard enough that even Sam is staring now.

“What do you mean, get around it?” Dean snipes, as much to distract his brother as anything. This is not the goddamn place to have a discussion about Dean’s DNA-intake issues.

Not that it makes him feel much better considering the bokor is having himself a grand old time at their expense. “Oh all kinds of things. People think they’re terribly clever, you know. Cows, pigs, chickens. Heard of one guy who tried vitamins, iron and all that.” He crinkles up his nose and Dean’s starting to get the feeling this guy may have more experience with blood drinking than just in the abstract. Whatever kind of rituals he’s been getting up to, Dean’s starting to think a call to the local Guild might be in order on the way out of town. “Then, of course, some people try to go up-town, raid the local blood bank. But you boys wouldn’t be dumb enough to pull anything like that would you?”

It’s mainly the burny-awfulness-dust that keeps Dean from walking over there and punching the asshole right in his condescending mouth - whatever else he may be packing, Dean would still lay money he’s got more experience with a machete than this dickbag.

That, and Sam saying tightly, “Why wouldn’t that work?”

“You ever seen anybody feed a lion tofu?” The bokor laughs like it’s the funniest fucking joke he ever heard. “It won’t work ‘cause it’s missing the point. You’re dealing with something beyond biology here. It’s metaphysics. Magic. It’s not the blood they need, it’s the life, the essence of it. Plugged up in a bag, it’s just meat juice.”

“Not all bites kill,” Sam argues,” There are plenty of cases-”

“Who said anything about killing? I said _life._ ” The scrape of metal on glass is like sand in Dean’s teeth as the bokor drags the machete along the edge of one of the cases, almost idly if it weren’t for the intensity of his stare. “Why d’you think blood magic’s so powerful, huh? There’s a little bit of soul in it. Doesn’t matter if you take it all or just a taste, the power’s in the body, the connection. That’s what they survive on. It’s what keeps them human.”

If anything, Sam’s more equipped than Dean to handle the situation now if something goes south, and the truth is, he doubts it will. He’s not really sure what this guy’s playing at, but he’s not moving like somebody looking to make trouble and the thrill pumping just below his skin smells more like a party than a brawl. Wouldn’t stand much of a chance between the two of them anyway unless he really is less than strictly human and even then that’s hardly a new tango for Dean and Sam. Still Dean can’t master the need to position himself in front of his brother.

“Most people would say we aren’t,” he says by way of a point that doesn’t need making. It has the bokor smiling at him like a kid with a brand new toy on his shelf.

“Well, I suppose that depends on what _you_ say then.”

Sammy may not have the full-model overhaul that Dean does, but it’s not like the tension in the air is so subtle he could miss it. His voice breaks through their silent standoff.

“An M state.”

Those big blue eyes slink their way off of Dean and back over to Sam, the same kind of fascination swimming in them like they’re taking in some brand new species.

“That’s what I hear,” he shrugs. It has the machete slipping, tip digging a fine divot into the floorboards where it hits dead-center between his feet.

“Sam, we’re leaving.” Dean tugs at his brother’s wrist, the desire to be anywhere else coiled up tight in his chest. He’s still shaking, and Sam doesn’t stumble when he yanks again so he must not have that much strength behind it. All of which can be dealt with later. They’ve already got the closest they’re going to get to what they came for.

“Sam,” he repeats, sharper when he brother drags his feet on the way to the door. The bokor doesn’t try to stop them. Doesn’t do one damn thing besides watch them as Dean flings the door open hard enough to rattle the big inset window in its center, tumbles them out into the rapidly cooling night.

Sixty miles out of town, Dean’s still feeling the weight of that gaze and he doesn’t know whether it’s something from that powder that’s got him all twisted up inside or the fact that none of it, not one slimy word, felt like a lie.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=3d1f63cb.jpg)

Sam’s boot skid on rain-slick concrete, squeal and grind and finally hold. He’s halfway down the embankment to the spillway, more water pelting down in his face from every direction as the wind whips it into a frenzy. His knuckles burn where they’ve ground against the pavement but he’s still got his gun. That’d be useful if he could make out more than a shadowed suggestion of what could either be Dean or the bunyip or a parked car.

A low grating sound that isn’t thunder echos out of the dark and his pulse kicks at his ribs even as his hands stay steady. Sound gives a direction, if only a general one. He doesn’t catch the next until it’s practically on top of him.

The light of each gunshot only lasts a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough for Sam to get the impression of slick, black bulk, looming up over him to blot out the sky as the bunyip rears its long body back. Only the force of the spray hitting his face says it’s blood and not more rain. True shot, if not a kill. There’s no way to get out from under it, though, so Sam lets gravity take him and hits the concrete flat on his face, hopes maybe it’ll topple far enough over that it won’t crush him into the pavement. The thing’s roar is almost drowned out by a completely different one that shouldn’t be as familiar as it is and the impact Sam’s braced for thuds a couple of feet to his right.

“Dean!” he’s yelling into the dark, rain pelting into his mouth and stinging on his face. He can’t see a damn thing, can’t get a bead on anything even if he could take the risk of gunning down his brother. A snap on the heels of a sickening, wet crunch sends Sam’s heart flying into his throat, boiling fear heating him against the pelting rain. Strangles the next shout of his brother’s name, stuffs it right back down into his gut like molten lead. Just in time for it to swoop as he’s lifted, literally, off his feet.

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” still sounds choked, but this time it’s because his brother his crushing the breath out of his lungs in some kind of modified bear hug. His feet dangle uselessly and his arms wrap automatically around Dean’s shoulders even though it’s pretty obvious Dean doesn’t need him to do a damn thing in order to keep this up.

His brother’s not saying anything, just growling some more and kind of snuffling against Sam’s sternum. The vibrations of it rock through his whole body like one of those magic finger beds Dean loves so much. It’s... very very weird. At this point, Sam feels like he can say that with authority - he is the world’s leading expert on Dean being weird.

After what has to be at least five minutes, maybe quite a bit longer, Dean calms down enough to respond when Sam asks, “De? You ok?”

“Yeah.” It’s gruff, the faint pressure of Dean’s mouth moving against his drenched t-shirt more of a clue that it was a word than the actual sound.

“Ok,” Sam drawls uncomfortably, “You wanna put me down now?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he only hesitates a few more seconds before easing Sam back to his unsteady foothold on the sharp incline.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispers, softly enough that Sam can’t say for certain that it was meant to be out loud. If Dean hadn’t mentioned it, Sam doubts he’d have even noticed that his knuckles are still throbbing hotly and there’s a matching spot on his cheek. It’s worlds away from the worst injury he’s ever had on a hunt. In their profession it’s more like a paper cut.

“I’m ok.”

Dean’s close enough that he can make out the darker shadows of his eyes, the faint outline of a mouth but it’s not enough to sketch out an expression when Dean says, “I know.”

A rough fist is tangled at the hem of Sam’s shirt, knuckles bumping gently at the low of his belly. Colder than the rain can account for. Maybe it was a bad idea to take this case. He has no idea what kind of reserves Dean has to tap into, but wearing them out doesn’t seem like a good idea.

Dean’s been hitting the blood bags hard since Beaumont, like he’s going to be able to prove the intel wrong by trying harder. If anything, it seems to be making him worse, but he won’t discuss it, not even in the abstract and Sam’s lost count of the shouting matches they’ve had between there and here. But an opportunity like this isn’t really a discussion is it?

“Kiss it better?” He’s aiming for a joke with just enough truth behind it to tempt.

The general theory is that there’s an enzyme in vampire saliva that promotes cell growth. Certainly there’s some kind of healing properties to it, because even victims with arterial wounds very rarely bleed out from a vampire bite. There’s been some talk over the years of uses for that kind of technology in the private sector, but that talk usually quiets down once the Guild starts making enquiries.

A gut-punched grunt is the response he gets and a sharpening pressure where Dean’s knuckles dig in as his brother clenches his fist.

“Sam.” Best guess is that was a warning since that’s how Dean usually likes to use his name when he doesn’t want to actually say what’s wrong with him. It comes out all wrong though, mixed up and fluttery like the puff of breath against Sam’s jaw.

His stomach jelly-quivers, whole body shaky and nervous, already on high alert from the hunt. There’s a dozen ways this could go wrong and only one that could sneak by under the header of right. Sam’s not even sure anymore which one he’s hoping for.

The sting of Dean’s lips brushing feather-light over his scraped cheekbone makes him gasp but he tilts into it anyway, holds perfectly still as breath after breath fans over abraded skin. Dean’s chest grates against his with how close they’re standing, dripping, clingy fabric doing nothing to disguise that Dean’s like an ice pop underneath. His head tips, stubble leaving friction heat on Sam’s cheek, mouth parting on a desperate sound as his lips fit to the damaged skin around the scratch.

And Sam goes blind with the sudden shine of headlights rushing over the lip of the spillway.

Dean’s roar is feral, fangs nicking Sam all over again as he jerks his head around, snap-quick, at the car looking down on them. He looks like something otherworldly in the halo of white, sharp fangs bared, glinting in the light, rain pouring off the angles of the snarl his face is pulled into. His pupils are huge, jagged edged where the black has bled out into green and the green into white like a stop-motion shot of glass breaking. It should scare the hell out of Sam but all he finds himself doing is throwing his weight into Dean at the first glint of a shotgun barrel.

The surprise is his saving grace since Dean has proved pretty thoroughly that Sam can’t hold a candle to him in the strength department anymore. They both go tumbling down the steep embankment, more cuts and bruises certainly opening as the scrabble down into the waist-high water below.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches the black shape of the bunyip, body lax in a position too unnatural to be anything less than a snapped spine, but most of his attention is on the inkblot of a figure against the headlights, shotgun hanging at his side, useless at this distance. He can’t make out anything, not with the angle and the light and the rain, but he knows it deep in his gut and from the way Dean’s dragging him through the water under the concrete overpass and up the bank on the other side toward the Impala, urgent like there’s a time bomb ticking down behind them, his brother must sense it too.

Hunter.

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“How is he?”

It’s faint, tinny, but the night is quiet and there’s nothing around the old cabin they’re squatting in for miles to keep him from picking up the sound of Bobby’s voice on the phone like an old, familiar tune on the radio.

Sam’s feet scuff through the weeds around the dilapidated steps that used to lead up to the caved in porch. His shadow blots patterns into the trickles of sunlight that make it through the old wood slats as he moves, a puppet show for nobody’s entertainment. Dean turns over on his side in his sleeping bag and stares at the mouldering wall, imagining how his brother must look on the other side of it.

“Himself, mostly,” Sam says, trails off to nothing with, “There’s some...”

The shaky draw of Sam’s breath has Dean mimicking it without a thought. He really wishes he could cut it out with that shit, but his body gives exactly zero damns about what Dean really wishes nowadays.

“He’s fine. We’re dealing,” is what his brother ends up with after too long a silence for Bobby not to know better, but the man doesn’t push it.

“The thing in Bloomfield?”

Dean cringes reflexively. It was dumb to take a case, but it had fallen all but literally into their laps and people were getting killed. A couple more misidentified stories on the news about kelpies and the locals were going to start thinking about going after it themselves. Whatever else they might be now, they’re still hunters. There’s no way they could have walked away from it. Getting spotted by the hunter actually assigned to the case wasn’t part of the plan though. If he’d just showed up two days sooner it wouldn’t have been an issue in the first place.

“Is it a problem?”

Bobby sighs. “Wandell didn’t say your names, but it doesn’t take a genius to put together what he saw with the two of you.”

“I know.”

“We can’t keep this under wraps forever, Sam.”

And it’s true. Dean’s not sure what all they went through to keep this whole thing off the books this long. Bobby and Ellen are pretty high up as far as that goes, but there are other Councils, Canada, or Europe if their neighbors to the north didn’t feel like getting mixed up in things. Probably helps that all parties involved have something to lose. Even Samuel, rat bastard, would end up with egg on his face if word got out that one of his own grandsons - and he may pretend like that isn’t true, but the good folks at CNN probably wouldn’t ignore the relation so easy - was roaming free with vampire blood in his veins and the go ahead of the Hunter’s Guild.

But they’re working on the outskirts of a community of people trained to look for the stuff nobody wants to talk about. Somebody’s going to work it out and orders or not, somebody’s going to talk. That’s how this stuff works. From there on things could fall out any of a dozen ways but Dean doubts any of them will be pretty. With him and Sam slap-dab in the middle of it.

Sam says, “I know,” and hangs up the phone.

He doesn’t come in right away. Doesn’t do much of anything but stand out there breathing, as far as Dean can hear. Not that it matters all that much, considering.

Sam hasn’t been sleeping much lately - a fact Dean knows because he racks up a grand total of about three hours himself most afternoons. For him it’s that he doesn’t seem particularly biologically inclined toward catching zzzs combined the steadily worsening cold sickness inside of him like his innards are mildewing. Sam’s problem is dreams.

Dean’s spent a fair portion of his life watching Sam sleep. It sounds kinda creepy laid out like that, but it’s true nonetheless. Dean knows what his brother looks like when he’s so dog tired a train driving through the middle of the room wouldn’t wake him and when he’s restless with endorphins after a hunt but making himself sleep anyway. He knows what it means when Sam twitches in the middle of the night or when he rolls over on his belly and rubs himself against the mattress without knowing it and when he mumbles out snatches of Latin that don’t really come out to anything. And he knows what Sam looks like when he’s having a dream about the future.

Sam’s always clammed up about those. Partly, he figures, because they’re rarely clear enough or far enough in advance to do anything about. Sammy may have ‘the gift’ or what the fuck ever, but he’s hardly a prophet.

The other more obvious part of it, of course, is that their father all but stopped acknowledging Sam’s existence after it became obvious he was a Seer, but that’s one of those mutually accepted no fly zones between them. Bringing up Sam’s daddy issues would just lead back to Dean’s and that’s not a place either of them ever needs to be going. Acceptance is the better part of valor or whatever the fuck that saying is.

Not talking about it - that’s the point.

Like how they’re not talking about Dean maybe almost trying to suck the taste of Sam right off of his baby brother’s skin back in Bloomfield and how Sam more than a little bit encouraged it. It’s getting to be a problem because Sam is more freaked out about Dean not getting his soul-vitamins than he ever was about the actual _turned into a vampire_ thing and Dean’s not doing so hot at pretending he’s wrong.

He keeps trying the bags and hoping that maybe it’s a matter of freshness, if he can get one that was drawn really recently it’ll do just fine, but so far, no dice. In the moment it’s great, euphoric, he wants to drain the bag dry and then hump it and tell it he loves it, but the feeling is fading faster, tipping over more and more to that week-old-egg-salad churn in his stomach. The last couple he’s barely managed to keep down and he knows Sam’s noticed, keeps bringing up the idea of bars and girls the way he never did when Dean used to beg him to pull the stick out of his ass and come out for some fun every once and a while.

And Sam smells too good to be making suggestions like that, feels too good, makes Dean want things that only feel more wrong because they don’t feel wrong at all. Just getting his mouth _close_ to Sam’s blood had made him want to knock him down and rub himself against Sam’s skin until his scent was permanently imprinted there like a big ‘Property of Dean Winchester’ tattoo. Some fucked up thing about his new body, lying to him about the way he feels and getting things all mixed up in his head. He sticks close to Sam under paper thin pretenses of protectiveness when at the end of the day, night, all he wants is Sam.


	3. Chapter 3

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Dean’s always been good at this. Sam knows his brother thinks of hunting as his talent - killing, more precisely - but that’s just because he’s worked at it, dedicated himself literally since he could walk to being the best, Guild trained or not. Picking up girls, that’s an ability he’s never even paid enough attention to to notice. Finding a clear place to walk so he doesn't step on them when they fling themselves at his feet, yes; picking them up, no. All of which was before he had the whole vampire mystique working for him. The truth is, Dean's always been a predator; the vampire blood just gave him fangs.

Violently pink lips curve up into a grin at whatever Dean’s saying, roll together on the slick smear of lipstick. She’s pretty, this girl, in that punky-goth kind of way, raven-dyed hair streaked with a couple different colors that don’t occur in nature but are hard to make out in the dim lighting. Dean could probably tell him the exact shade.

It’s in keeping with the red and black photo album of clichés that makes up the bar itself and Sam wonders if that’s oblivious or just clever of whoever runs the joint; a double bluff made up of a drugstore aisle's worth of kohl eyeliner, teens and college geeks and too-old losers sipping dark drinks out of martini glasses and getting themselves hopped up on the idea. Too much of a ‘monster club’ to be one, except for how it is.

The bar is busier than Sam would have guessed under the circumstances, but then cities have always been a magnet for anyone who craves anonymity. Among other vices.

That’d be enough to have Dean in a snit most days - he’s always hated cities even though there’s never been any concrete evidence that creature populations are higher in metropolitan areas - because Dean’s an insufferable toddler anytime he has to do something that’s in the least bit counter-intuitive to what he wants, but that’s not what’s put the edge in his movements tonight.

Dean has to know, he’s not stupid no matter how often he insists on pretending it, and Sam hadn’t exactly been subtle. Looking for information about the doctor in the underground network was a fair enough ruse, because Dean would never seek out a place like this on his own and sure as hell wouldn’t let Sam do it for him. Then again, he’s not entirely sure how much Dean knows about Sam’s particular level of experience in this arena.

He’d spent a few months in his late teens flirting with the underground scene, imagining impassioned rallies about the civil rights of individuals who were less than fully human. Mostly what he’d found was a group of people who spent a lot more time than he was comfortable with fetishizing the Seer tattoos on his arms and big talk with no backbone to do anything about it. Dad had just been starting to get sick back then and was around way more than Sam had ever been used to, let alone comfortable with. In part he thinks that may have been why he got mixed up in it in the first place, but between him and Dean on the lookout, Sam had spent more time dodging suspicious looks than really meeting up with people anyway. In the end he’d given up on the whole idea as a bust, but that time had taught him a lot of things, not the least of which was that there a lot of people out there who get hot and bothered over a set of fangs.

The girl - Jamie; memorizing their names an old habit Sam’s never been able to break from when he used to keep an ear out for some girl at school suddenly turning up pregnant - laughs too loud at something Dean says, obviously worked up into a rush by the promise of what his brother is. He kind of feels sorry for her in a way, equal parts intrigued. There have always been rumors about what it’s like to be bitten, enough victims escaping with stories of a high like no other to send thrill seekers out into the night looking for something with more edge than a sky dive. If he had to guess, he’d say that’s why most of the people are here - since it’s pretty obvious from the look Dean shot him three steps through the door that it’s Sam who’s in the biological majority here, not Dean - but there’s no real telling and it’s not really the time to start questioning motives. Not if he’s going to finally get Dean talked into doing this.

Watching his brother war with himself on the point is more fascinating than it should be, see-sawing randomly between coming on strong and back-pedaling fast enough Sam’s surprised he doesn’t have whiplash. He’s probably enjoying it a little too much, but like he said, Dean’s always had a talent for this and Sam spent too much of his adolescence gawky and awkward not to revel a little in the payback.

The finger Dean has looped under the band of Sam’s watch, arm crooked awkwardly behind him to where Sam’s perched on a barstool, jerks intermittently. He can’t decide if Dean expects him to try and hold his big brother back or if he’s just making sure Sam hasn’t somehow escaped. Sam’s starting to get uncomfortable how accustomed he’s become to being a constant focus of Dean’s attention.

Any which way, Sam’s not about to step up and make his brother back off when there’s a willing - _donor_ , not victim, he’s not going to kill her - body practically panting after the idea of him biting her and Dean’s vampire tendencies are riding him too hard to make him stop. Sam hopes. He has not come this far and risked this much to let Dean starve to death right in front of him out of sheer stubbornness.

Jamie leans in close to say something right up against Dean’s ear, far too coincidentally baring the curve of her neck - hard to get is clearly not in this girl’s vocabulary - and even through one tiny point of contact, Sam can feel the tension sing through his brother. So close, so close. Sam gives Dean a subtle nudge toward a corner too shadowy to be anything but intentional. Tries and fails to extricate his arm when his brother follows the direction, nearly dragging Sam and the stool both across the room with him.

So far Jamie has been doing a fine enough job of ignoring Sam considering he’s the tallest person in the room by inches and wearing blue plaid, but nobody could be that oblivious and her eyes dart up to Sam curiously. She shoots a look at Dean, then the bruising grip his brother’s got on Sam’s wrist and back up to Sam again, uncertainty melting into realization that puddles into a bright lipped smirk. Her shoulders lean against the wall but her hips never make it that far, bumpering Dean’s as she draws him in with a handhold on the waistband of his jeans. Dean is practically vibrating.

“You could have said,” she confides, dark-eyed, “I don’t mind if your mate joins in.”

It takes Sam a too long moment of puzzling that over - she hadn’t sounded British at all - for it to click in that that wasn’t slang. She meant literally. Mate. Dean’s mate. Meaning Sam.

“Woah, no, we’re not, we’re-” Sam stops himself short of saying brothers because it’s probably best not to go flashing too much information around on the off chance that any of this should find its way to the wrong ears. They’re conspicuous enough without throwing in confirming details for anyone on the lookout. He settles on, “I’m human.”

Confusion flitters back across Jamie’s face before mellowing out again to eagerness. He’s not sure why a girl who goes for vampires being adventurous surprises him, but it’s kind of freaky.

“Oh, ok,” she shrugs, craning around Dean to get a hand smoothing appreciatively down Sam’s side. “Not that I’m opposed to quick and dirty, but this would go easier in a bed if we’re going to be trading off.”

Chances are that Dean misses most of that suggestion, though, because Jamie’s eyes only get as far as Sam’s hips before Dean’s jerking Sam forward, bum shoulder pulling ominously in its socket, until he’s flush to Dean’s back, hand sandwiched between Dean’s sternum and palm.

Even reversed, the position makes the Council flicker in front of Sam’s eyes, desperate fear churn in his stomach.

“Wha-”

“Mine,” Dean says, voice low and threatening and nothing at all like a human’s.

Not quite as fearless - or maybe just not nearly as dumb - as she’s been letting on all this time, Jamie flattens herself against the wall, dark liner around her eyes making the shocked spread of them more obvious.

The calluses on Sam’s hand catch at his brother’s soft shirt as Dean drags both of their hands upward. Sam’s not really strong enough to fight it even if he had a decent angle here so he lets it go and his brain cascades through exit strategies.

Between the music and the darkness of the corner they’ve staked out he doubts anyone would have noticed something’s up even if this was the kind of place where butting into other people’s business was encouraged. The front door is all the way across the bar, but with speed and surprise on their side they could probably make it. There’s an empty doorway fifteen paces to the left that’s a better bet though, assuming it lets out somewhere and not just further into the bowels of the building. They should have brought more than a couple of knives but silver and guns weren’t likely to have made them any friends on the chance that someone here really did know something about the doctor.

A noise startles out of him, more stunned than hurt, at the sudden sting at the very tip of his first finger. It twists into a burn and, almost as fast, back again into a pleasant, ticklish sort of tingle at the wet, cool drag of what Sam realizes too late is his brother’s tongue.

“Mine,” Dean repeats, if anything rougher this time as he moves on to Sam’s middle finger and gives it the same nip-lick treatment. Tasting Sam’s blood.

Jamie looks like she is losing her shit fast, but whatever this girl’s been experimenting with in her free time, she seems to know better than to do something stupid like run or scream. Dean moves on to Sam’s ring finger, shattered-green eyes falling half-lidded as he devotes a little more attention to what he’s doing than the terrified girl he’s got cornered.

Sam’s flying blind here, but not as much as he could be, would have been a couple of months ago before their whole lives went to hell, no handbasket required. Dean’s always been responsive to touch, even when they made a lot less physical contact than they do nowadays, so that’s what Sam puts his bet on for a distraction - try and get the civies out of the immediate danger zone and then get them both the fuck out of here. He slides his free hand around Dean’s hip and pulls like there’s any closer for them to get.

Pressing his lips to Dean’s cheek is nothing but bizarre, cool skin and stubble and the smell of leather because Dean’s given up on aftershave with his sense of smell the way it is. It’s intimate. Creepy and flashbacky at the same time because it’s not exactly a first; for years they did this, morning and night, probably past the ages where that kind of affection could have been considered normal. Those rumors about them didn’t come out of nowhere, after all.

Dean makes a sound that’s got no meaning for Sam beyond making his pulse stutter nervously. Broken pupils cut towards him from under thick lashes. The sharp point of Dean’s fang hovers against the pad of Sam’s little finger, just like the breath in Sam’s lungs. He leans back in and presses another kiss to Dean’s face, down along the jut of his jawbone, takes the risk and darts his tongue against the burn of five o’clock shadow. It gets another noise, rumbly-deep enough that Sam feels it in his own chest where they’re connected, and then Dean nicks him, deeper this time than any of the others before he draws the tip of the finger into his mouth to suckle.

“Dean,” Sam keeps his voice low and even as he watches Jamie slip away in his peripheral vision, “we have to go.”

Dean chuffs a breath around Sam’s finger and pulls another one into his mouth along with it, sliding his lips down onto him and doing... well, something that Sam’s heard too many remarks about his brother’s mouth being ‘made for’. It’s kind of uncomfortable that it turns out they were right.

“Dean.” Sam can hear the urgency rising in his voice along with the faint shufflings behind him, hopefully of people getting the hell out of their way. His brother doesn’t seem to care. “C’mon, we gotta- … Let’s, let’s go somewhere, ok?” The words are hard enough to think up, let alone get out. “We’ll just... we’ll go back to the room and we can, you know, d- do stuff. Just... just you and me. Ok?”

Again Dean makes that noise - and what the hell is that anyway? Like a grump or a purr or what? - but he lets Sam’s fingers pull free of his mouth with a slick pop and turns easily in the circle of Sam’s arms to lick a wide, sloppy stripe over Sam’s lips. Oh god, this is too weird even for them.

“Ok, yeah,” he tries to say without actually getting his brother’s tongue in his mouth. It’s a challenge and Sam’s choosing not to rate his success in percentages. “Let’s go.”

He moves a step back and Dean takes one forward and it’s probably the least efficient possible way to cross a room but they manage, mainly by virtue of basically everyone else in the bar having already escaped. If this was the kind of place that could afford attention Sam would be worried about sirens and maybe even news crews but as it is he’s guessing their biggest issue will be a decidedly chilly welcome by anyone in town who might have been able to feed them information. Wonderful.

But that’s a pain in the ass to deal with later. Right now he just need to get Dean back to the motel room with as little molestation as possible. Somehow Sam’s not feeling particularly hopeful.

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=2de09c76.jpg)

It heaves, fluid roll of bitter heat up from the pit of his gut, climbing him like a living thing, the only living thing in him and it’s coming right back again. It’s thick on the back of his throat, lodged painfully in his nose, everything he feels and tastes and smells - blood, another stream of it forcing its way up out of his gullet to Rorschach swirl against the bottom of the toilet bowl.

He’s shaking like a fever, like Sam said way back, an infection. Or something. He said something like that anyway, Dean can’t think straight enough to remember right now. There’s a red smear on the back of his hand from wiping his mouth and it disgusts him almost enough to distract from how bad he wants to taste it.

Dead, its dead blood, stinking of preservatives and he wants so much anyway his teeth ache.

“Dean,” Sam says, like Dean could possibly not know he’s there. Like there’s anywhere he could be that Dean wouldn’t feel it with the little Sammy string wrapped around his barely-beating heart.

“Go to bed, Sam.” It’s a hopeful, stupid reflex because he knows better than to think Sam could possibly just do what he’s damn-well told for a change.

He’d sobered up - or whatever the hell passes for ‘not strung out on his little brother’s blood’ - about halfway back to the motel. By the time they’d gotten the key in the lock he’d been planning to slit his own wrists before he remembered it wouldn’t do any good and went for the blood bag stuffed in their mini fridge instead in the desperate hope that maybe enough of it would rinse the memory of hot, sweet, perfect Sam out of his tastebuds.

It hadn’t worked. In fact, as soon as the first gulp hit his stomach it tried to come right back up again. He’d made himself keep going anyway and look how well it turned out.

Dean rests his head against the cool porcelain even though his fingertips already feel like they’ve been dipped in ice water, the sensation slowly seeping deeper into his body.

Sam doesn’t bother dignifying the order with an answer, just plunks himself down on the peach tile next to Dean and stares. It’s fucking obnoxious.

Fuck, he smells like heaven slathered in butter, dipped in sugar and deep fried. Tastes even better and Dean’s never going to be able to not know that again. Never going to forget the blistering, abject rage of somebody else’s hand on his personal Sammy.

It had been like with the bokor, when Dean lost it and thought he was going to drain the guy dry. Lizard brain slithering out of hiding to take over except for how Dean’s almost positive that wanting to shove his brother up against a wall and fuck him so full of Dean’s scent no one would ever doubt who he belonged to again was not something his lizard brain used to be even passingly associated with.

And Dean’s a little bit occupied dealing with that major personality crisis so he doesn’t really notice what Sam’s up to until _that smell_ billows out into the air like toxic smoke, choking Dean’s lungs and sending his body into spasms of hunger.

“No.” He tries to say it sharply but it comes out more of a whimper, saliva drooling out into the toilet bowl. He can’t bring himself to look, but he knows, _knows_ , that Sam’s cut himself, deep enough that a couple of free-flowing drops are pattering onto the floor with the rest of Dean’s ill-advised meal.

“Fuck you, _no_. This is killing you.” Sam takes away the choice of looking by shoving his arm in Dean’s face, a smooth gash of impossible red just above the tender, vein-webbed wrist. “I’m not watching it again, Dean. Once was enough. Now you can take it or I can make you, but this is happening. Right now.”

“Sam, no!” Despite the fact that Dean is absolutely, unquestionably stronger than his brother, his attempt at shoving Sam’s arm away turns into just kind of holding it. At least with his hand in the way that antsy voice at the back of his head shuts up with the whine of _you’re wasting it_ every time a droplet hits the floor. It’s pooling in the crevice between his skin and Sam’s, turning his palm into a shallow cup of pure heat. He can’t even breathe through the smell of it but he’s sucking it in anyway like a drowning man. A thin line of slick warmth teases into the webbing of his fingers, trailing slowly down the back of his hand. Dean feels every millimeter.

His, “I won’t,” sounds more like ‘please’ as he tries to hold back that thing in him that so badly wants the reigns. And then Sam holds the knife he must have used to cut himself and lifts it up to his own throat. Vivid red smears just below his jaw, leftover blood like pornography on his skin.

“I’ll make you if I have to.” It’s a threat and Sam’s never been the type to make them lightly. Dean can _see_ it, narrowed in like a zoom lens, as Sam’s pulse flutters against the blade. One slice and it’ll all come spilling free, the rushing, vibrant power that makes Sam who he is and he’s right, Dean will have to use the fucked up things his own damn spit is designed for to seal the wound or watch Sammy bleed out in front of him. They both know that’s no choice at all.

The wet trail down the back of Dean’s hand has slowed at his wrist, growing heavy and surrendering to the pull of gravity. It spats against the leg of Dean’s pants, too loud over the racket of their tense breaths, soaks in until Dean can feel the damp drag of it against his skin.

He puts Sam’s wounded arm to his mouth and sucks.

It’s not that it tastes like anything else, not sweet or spicy or delicious cheeseburger-y goodness. It tastes like blood, it just so happens that’s a good thing. He guesses it’s like how the taste of beer made him want to barf to first time he snuck a sip but now it’s something he looks forward to, craves even, or used to. Now he’s not sure he can crave anything but this; that taste of Sam’s blood, rich and complex on his tongue.

It’s like splashdown in his veins, skipping right over the whole stomach part of the equation and racing out along Dean’s limbs, through his body, lighting him up like the Fourth of July. He’s shivering for a whole new reason now, soft hot skin so delicate against his mouth, so sensitive and perfect with the smell of Sam and the taste of him. He wants more of it, needs it, doesn’t even realize he’s tugging at the front of Sam’s shirt until the fabric shreds like wet tissue under his hand.

In a vague sort of way he’s aware of Sam saying something to him, pushing at him, but it’s all kittenish and weak so Dean just ignores it.

He knows the second he’s had enough like there’s a stop-valve in his throat, licks fast and hard over the cut until he can feel it closing, funny, carbonated-bubbly sensation against the tip of his tongue as it seals. He wonders if he did that then forgets why he cares when there’s all this _Sam_ to deal with.

A little push knocks Sam flat to the floor, slapped look on his face more like Dean shoved him, eyes huge with shock, the smell of a faint bruise blooming where Dean’s hand hit his shoulder. The heat of it is intoxicating against Dean’s lips when he presses his mouth to it. Sam’s made of heat, shimmering with it, delicious soaked fire down to Dean’s bones, setting him ringing like a tuning fork fixed on Sam’s frequency.

He follows Sam’s scent down the line of his arm, over his ribs, licking at the curve of hard bone and the soft places in between. Sam’s hands are on his head, shoulders, pushing or pulling or something. He can’t tell, doesn’t care. Feels like he’s buzzing, skin fizzling with electricity as he mouths at the shape of Sam’s abs, firm nuggets of muscle fluttering and clenching as he drags his teeth against them just hard enough to redden the skin.

Sam’s snake slippery, all slinky, lean strength, struggling out of instinct whenever he gets a chance because if Sammy ever had it in him to go easy that bit of his personality got beaten and left for dead in an alley somewhere a long ass time ago. That’s just fine by Dean, always liked a little fight with his fuck anyway.

In the sleepy parts of his mind it hits him that the word ought to gut him; ‘fuck’ melting like butter over his brain pan while his shoulders force Sam’s thighs wide. Doesn’t though. Just wets his appetite, makes him rub his dick against the floor, tile cold through the grating push of his fly.

Sam smells even better here, slipping low, lower, all that pulsating heat at his core. His cock is soft, all give when Dean presses his face against the denim covering Sam. Anger flashes like sheet lightning through him and sets his fingers tearing clumsily at Sam’s jeans until they give up the ghost and V open for him to a set of threadbare boxers. A growl pressed rough against the nothing swell, long, low vibration and demand, earns twitchy little flinches as the shape of Sammy starts to fill out. Sucking gets an even better response, soft cotton soaking through pink from the blood still lingering on the insides of Dean’s cheeks.

Sam groans miserably and that’s a much better sound for him than the babbly scraps of denial he’s been spilling out. Dean takes it for encouragement and sucks harder, relishing the hot rush just below the surface, fattening Sam’s dick up and turning it firm. The red tip peeks out of the split of Sam’s boxers like a new-born puppy, nosing blind. Dean nuzzles at it encouragingly, swipes his tongue across it and the taste of Sam explodes in his mouth, exactly the same and completely different than the hot tang of his blood.

He’s immediately hooked on it, diving back in with his tongue for more, sucking and prodding at the little mouth of his slit until it spills out more, again and again and again.

Sam’s still trying to talk, he thinks, but it’s getting lost in translation around all of those pretty noises that make Dean’s cock ache. Long fingered hands find his face, failing miserably at pushing him off. Dean nips at the pads of them just for kicks, hour-old nostalgia as he compares the salt on them to what he’s just been tasting. All these layers to Sammy that he’s decades behind on cataloguing.

Sam squirms photoshoot-pretty in shadows and light when Dean gets his mouth back down to business. How anything can feel as good as the swell of Sam’s cockhead cradled between the roof of his mouth and his tongue is beyond Dean but he feels kinda put-out he’s just finding it out now.

He’s not being nearly as careful as he ought to be with the teeth considering the set currently mounted over his canines are specifically designed to tear human flesh, but there’s too damn much of Sam to do any kind of job guarding them. Helps that Dean doesn’t actually give a shit, actively likes the little hits of blood that leak free before the nicks close over again. The way Sammy jerks and whines and spills more precome onto his tongue anyway doesn’t hurt either.

By the time he has cotton and wiry hair tickling at his nose Sam’s more lax than defiant, fingers moving restless against the tile and hips pulsing these teeny little fucks that feel unintentional. His hair’s a messy halo on the carpet where the top quarter of him has tumbled out into the bedroom and what Dean can make out of his eyes are addict bright.

Dean’s never cared all that much about the science side of the job - hunt it, kill it, burn it - and his own brief encounter on the other end of things isn’t much more in his memory than a flash of fangs and cold burrowing into him where it didn’t belong, but he wonders if it’s true about the high, if that’s what Sammy’s getting now; doped up on his spit and sexed up by his mouth. Wonders if the kid will want to do empirical studies. Dean imagines all the ways they’d have to test it out, all the places he could sink his teeth deep into Sammy. Jams himself so far onto Sam’s dick he’d choke if his body still cared much about oxygen.

A moan that Dean’s got no other word for than slutty bursts out of Sam’s throat, body rippling under Dean’s palms as his brother curls in around him. There’s hectic color on Sam’s cheeks, in his wet, red lips as if he’s been keeping himself busy gnawing on them the way Dean wants to. His hand is huge, scorching hot on the back of Dean’s neck, stark counter to the burning weight wedging him open.

That alone would be enough to get Dean right up to the precipice, the feel of Sam all around him, in him, the humid, musky smell of him like sex is coming out of his pores, the look on his face like he’s forgotten anything but Dean exists. But then he pushes, hardly enough to count if Dean’s wasn’t feeling everything so acutely. Fingers digging into the soft flesh under Dean’s jaw, tips brushing where the shape of Sam’s cock swells his throat as he’s forced all the way down until his lips meet Sam’s body, every last not-inconsiderable inch of his brother crammed into him. He swallows, relishes the sting of his insides catching at the flared head, looks all the way up til his eyes ache just holding Sammy’s gaze. And Sam comes, wailing, shameless, spraying so deep Dean only gets the impression of a taste.

Dean sucks him all the way through it, long after Sam’s gone soft on his tongue and started mewling things that sound like stop but aren’t actually words at all. His eyes are wet when Dean pulls off, hurt or overload or disgust, and Dean wants to feel bad about it but all he does is shuck his clothes down and drape himself over his brother, licking at the salt gathered on Sam’s eyelashes and rutting against the twitchy chub of Sam’s spent dick.

It’s over fast, a few rough fucks of his hips combined with all the Sammy blistering through his veins conspiring to finish him off quick. He gets enough space between them when he does to make sure it splatters Sam’s skin. Spends the next few minutes rubbing it in with his fingers until Sam’s tan looks paler through the veil of it, abs and ribs and perky little nipples all marked up as Dean’s.

Sam doesn’t do anything but stare at the ceiling and breathe.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=4fd2c183.jpg)

_Big, steel-grey eyes looking up, soft, pity. “No, I’m sorry,” falling from her lips like a guillotine “It’s very unlikely.” Another set, coffee-black, assessing, smirk set into a wide, pout of a mouth. The slam of a door blotting out the back of Dean’s head, his brother walking away with Sam’s heart trying leap out of his chest to follow._

“What?” Dean’s voice rushes warm against the shot of ice water flooding Sam’s veins. That familiar fuzzy pain is crawling around in his skull like a platoon of broken glass caterpillars. How anybody with meaningful visions handles it, Sam can’t imagine.

The dark outline of Dean is startlingly close. Must be standing between the beds but Sam can’t make it out in the hazy light creeping in under the makeshift blackout curtains they’d fashioned with blankets from the trunk. No way of telling if Dean’s dressed or not to make a guess at how long he’s been awake, whether he ever went to sleep at all.

Real blood seems to have improved Dean’s condition health-wise but it’s done fuck all for his mental state. In the three days since, Dean hasn’t so much as laid a hand on him, avoids getting within a five foot radius if he can help it, like he thinks he’s going to go off the chain and use Sam as a water bottle any second. Funny enough, Sam’s not worried about it at all now that they’ve been there done that. If Dean could stop himself with a vein open against his lips and Sam’s blood on his tongue then close quarters probably isn’t the biggest threat to Sam’s continued survival.

Mostly Dean’s just been walking around looking like a kicked puppy and it’s screwing up the major freakout Sam is entitled to over... that thing that happened, because he’s too busy trying to jump his brother into gear to bother with his own feelings.

“Nothing.” His voice comes out like lead shavings. “Just a dream.”

Dean snorts. Sam doesn’t need to see his face to know the glare his brother’s wearing.

“You’re a shitty liar, you know that?”

Sam skins a hand back through his hair to dislodge the clumps of it sweat-glued to his temples. “No, I’m really not.”

“You are with me,” Dean counters.

And Sam doesn’t have a good argument to that so he doesn’t try to make one. On the other side of a soupy patch of dark, he can feel Dean just staring at him, waiting on some answer that Sam can’t stand any of his guesses at. So he sticks out his hand instead and lets it dangle into the space between, not quite long enough to reach Dean at this angle, but close.

Instinctively he expects to hear Dean’s knees pop as his brother lowers himself to the ground but it’s smooth and silent, just one more shadow in the mix. His fingers are almost warm as he fits just the tips of them against Sam’s, the same ones that started this whole mess between them. There’s not a mark on them, even though Sam feels like there should be, a permanent brand on Sam’s identity, a tiny slice through the whorls where Dean got his first taste of living human blood.

Beneath the window, the heater flips through another cycle, ticking as it warms up to the task. There’s an oppressiveness on the air that makes it feel like they’re both waiting on something and Sam’s got no clue what it might be.

He spreads his fingers and Dean matches him, lets him slide them down the inside of his brother’s until they find the trench where the palm joins. Dean’s are shorter so they don’t reach all the way, just resting there against the third joint of Sam’s. He can see them in his head, the webbed lines of the knuckles and the short blunt nails, torn cuticles, dirt that never really seems to come free. The scar from a hot shell casing when Dean was fourteen emblazoned on the outside middle of his pinkie.

He knows everything about those fingers, even spent a particularly avid summer trying to memorize the patterns of them after he learned about fingerprints in science class. He’s seen them broken and bloodied, careful with a needle, steady with a knife, felt them testing his forehead for a fever and digging into his ribs to make him laugh, born the bruises of them after rough hunts being shoved suddenly out of the path of danger and rougher fights when it was the shape of flung words that really left wounds.

Has felt them smearing his brother’s come into his skin. And the thing that gets him is that it should bother him more than it does.

Dean’s hands are everything he is and it’s not really home to Sam, but it’s not really anything else either.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=f761fb95.jpg)

“Dean?” On the other end of the line, Bobby sounds genuinely shocked. Dean shifts the phone up to cradle it between his ear and shoulder, retrieving the cloth he was using on a sorely neglected .22. Ok, so yeah, Dean’s technically dead, he’s not so much with the ‘and gone’ part - he can still answer the damn phone.

He keeps his tone even, light, when he answers, “Yeah, Bobby.” Any weird nervous feelings he might have are probably just because it’s been a week since The Incident and he’s starting to get hungry again. He grew out of that ‘please don’t let me be a disappointment’ thing a long time ago.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean knows he’s not imagining the tension in Bobby’s voice and it’s like a punch to the kidneys.

His, “Shower,” comes out with too much bite but he reigns it back in with a deep breath. “You want me to get him?”

Dean is developing a pronounced aptitude for not thinking about the sudden spike of heat that hits him at the thought of walking in on Sam like that. All that wet, slick skin. Yep, not thinking about it, because that’s what a decent person does after essentially raping their younger brother; never, ever think inappropriate thoughts about him again even if it fucking kills them to do it. Even if their brother smells and tastes and sounds like everything worth living for.

Somewhere back in South Dakota Bobby clears his throat. “No, no. I... Look, I just called to give you a heads up. The cat aint out of the bag but there’s a lot of mutts sniffing around it.”

“Somebody on our tail?”

“I don’t know anything for sure, but there’s a lot of rumors flying around and all of a sudden, Gordon’s off the grid.”

“Shit,” Dean breathes, suddenly glad that Sammy’s using up all the hot water so he doesn’t have to try and cover the flare of panic he can feel blooming on his face.

Gordon Walker is an asshole. Hunters aren’t known for being social butterflies but this guy has skeeved dudes that Dean has personally seen comb shifter goo out of their hair without batting an eyelash. He’s bad news, and as an added bonus, has a special hard-on for killing vampires and a very limited grasp of Guild protocols.

“It could be nothing,” Bobby says, “but I thought you should know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Bobby. We’ll-” the knobs squeal as Sam turns off the water, still humming quietly to himself. It’s Phish, which Dean had been planning to give him hell about but now they’ve got more important things to deal with. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

“Good.”

Without the noise of the water, Dean can hear Sam’s feet pat on the thin bathroom rug, the shuff of the scratchy towel on his skin, rasping across the thin sprinkling of hair on his legs as he dries himself off, getting louder as he gets up to the nest of it as his groin, the almost imperceptible hitch of his breath. Dean really goddamn hates his super-hearing.

“Dean?”

The pistol clatters loudly to the floor when Dean jumps at the snap in Bobby’s voice. Definitely not his first shot at getting Dean’s attention. “Huh? Yeah! What?”

If he could blush, he probably would be, like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Of course, if he could blush, it’d be Sam’s blood coloring his cheeks and that thought really shouldn’t make his dick take an interest.

“Are you-” Bobby fumbles, “How are you?”

Dean almost laughs, except it’s not funny in the least that he’s standing in the middle of a motel room with cherub wallpaper, half hard from thinking about having a nibble on his baby brother’s neck.

The bathroom doorknob rattles in its fixture as Sam pulls it open and thick, Sammy-scented air pours out into the room. So much for half hard.

Sam stops in the middle of ruffling his hair with a towel, eyes flying from the gun on the floor to their emergency burner-phone in Dean’s hand, worry flickering over to fear before Sam locks it down. Too-old, worn out fabric clings lovingly where he must have slid his boxers on damp; strong thighs and cut hips, the soft hang of his cock and the pretty flare of the head Dean can only just make out because-

Because he’s staring like a pervert. At his brother. Again.

“I been better,” he says into the phone. Hey, at least it’s honest. “Thanks for the warning, Bobby.”

“Watch yourselves.” Goodbye’s too dangerous a word in their line of work. And it’s damn good advice - Dean needs to spend a lot more time watching himself and a lot less eyeing Sam.

“We will,” he promises, disconnecting the call.

Sam opens his mouth for a question that doesn’t get free before Dean can’t take it anymore.

“Would it kill you to put a shirt on? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!”

He throws the first article of clothing he can reach in his brother’s direction, which happens to be a sock but whatever. Any extra cloth between his eyes and Sam’s body is a good thing.

Pointedly he turns his back on Sam, stuffing everything of theirs he can reach unceremoniously into duffles, taking care only with the weapons. “Get your shit, we got a bloodhound on our trail.”

“How? Who?” Sam’s moving though, denim grating loud against skin, softer t-shirt, another layer over it. Not nearly enough to protect him from Dean’s constant, obsessive awareness, but probably enough to sate Dean’s overactive imagination to PG-13 levels.

“Walker,” Dean says to his bag anyway because really? Why chance looking?

Sam huffs, “Fuck. Any idea where?” and starts getting around faster.

“No. Bobby says he just up and disappeared.” Not that that means anything. Nobody spends much time in the life without learning how to fall of the radar when they need to. And if Gordon’s anywhere near as good as Dean’s heard, him going stealth-mode could be a very dangerous thing for them. It’s time they stopped getting so cozy in their stop-overs.

Sam hisses, “Fuck,” again, grabs the car keys and his wallet off of the TV stand. “I’ll go check out and get the blanket out of the back.”

As he says it, he’s sidling through the little bit of space left between Dean’s body and the stupidly placed dresser by the front door so Dean kind of fuzzes out on the actual words - lost to the pickles of fire blooming on his skin in the wake of contact - until Sam’s already got a hand on the knob.

“It’s late enough,” he argues, part wounded dignity - it’s only a couple of hours to sundown, he can handle it for that long inside the car - part sudden, desperate need to keep Sam in his sights. He’s got to get over this shit.

“No it’s not,” Sam singsongs back just to get on his nerves, and then he’s gone, wedging himself through the smallest possible crack in the door like Dean’s going to burst into flames at the barest hint of sunlight. Dean’s more worried about bursting into flames out of divine retribution. Because when Sam slid out the door? Dean totally checked out his ass. Again.

God, he is so completely fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

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Sam watches his brother work from a discreet distance; far enough away that he can't overhear what Dean's saying to the girl, close enough to see the spark light in her eyes. It's still beyond him the level of trust these girls - people, there had been that guy back in Missoula - put in someone they don’t even know, let alone someone they _do_ know wants to take a bite out of them, but Sam had to face the realization a long time ago that your average human being is a lot crazier than your average monster.

It probably doesn't hurt that Dean's picked easily the sluttiest looking girl in the place, that she'd practically been panting by the time he walked over. The tip of Dean's nose traces softly around the whorl of her ear and Sam can see her eyelashes flutter. He knocks back what's left of his lukewarm beer and heads for the back to get into position.

He can't pretend he's not nervous, maybe moreso than Dean, as he slips into the shadow of the big dumpster in the alley behind the bar. The place is quiet, secluded, the sort of spot that sets his senses on high alert.

There are a couple of dozen ways to get Dean off of the chick if things go south and Sam goes over them again in his head, trying not to jump as the back door bangs open again and his brother and his new pal stumble into the alley.

Dean has her pressed up against him in a heartbeat, his own back against the wall to give some kind of vague impression that she's the one in charge here when they all know the real score. She's got her tongue in Dean's mouth and Dean's hands on her ass, all but lifting her up off the ground to get closer. Sam's caught between the almost overwhelming urge to look away and the fact that doing it would negate the whole point of him being here. He does his best to stay focused on Dean's dangerous, fanged mouth and absolutely nothing else, not that it makes things even moderately less uncomfortable.

Dean's fingers slip underneath the girl's mini-skirt - apparently nobody told her it's 30 degrees out - and Sam reminds himself he's not supposed to be looking a couple of seconds after he's discovered that she's not wearing underwear. It's really not his fault his dick's already at half-mast. He's only human.

His brother is kissing his way down the girl's neck, tension singing through every fiber of Sam's being knowing what's going to happen next, ready to jump in if he needs to. There's a lamp over the back door, keeping Dean and his _companion_ illuminated well enough that Sam can see the glisten on Dean’s fingers as he pushes them up under the girl’s skirt and draws them out again slow, back in, an unsteady rhythm as he just plays with her, leaving wet stripes on the insides of her thighs and the swell of her ass when he drags the skirt up until it’s more of a belt than anything.

Sam’s watching it way too intently, he knows, but he can’t peel his eyes away. He’s no monk, but he’s never gotten the kind of play that Dean does, never been willing to do the whole one night stand thing. It means he’s no stranger to going months at a stretch with anything but the company of his own hand, but even for him this mess has been pushing it. Not so much the time as it is the... other stuff. And yeah, that’s fucked up too but how much is a guy really supposed to take of being touched and caressed and _fondled_ all the freaking time without getting worked up on occasion, even if it is only his big brother.

His big brother with the hot, soft, eager mouth who gives head like he’s getting paid for it.

Sam’s mouth floods with the taste of aluminum like he’s going to be sick but his dick is perking up in his jeans anyway.

Dean’s green-shattered eyes are cat-bright, almost reflective, when they open and lock on Sam’s under the cover of shadow, just as white teeth puncture tan skin. It's not actually possible that the whole rest of the world shuts up at the exact same moment, but it seems like it as Sam listens to the impossibly loud, lewd gulp of his brother's throat working, lips smearing red against the girl's neck. Surely she's making some kind of sound too, but Sam can't hear it, honestly, genuinely can't, even when he strains for it. Not the noise of tires through slushy snow on the street or the music from the bar, nothing but Dean swallowing over and over again and the sound of his own heart hammering.

Inevitably, it seems like it takes forever with Sam on edge and ready to spring into action at any second, but it’s never lasted more than a few minutes in the handful of times they’ve done this. The girl comes with Dean’s mouth on her neck and his fingers spreading her so wide Sam ought to have a medical degree for the view he’s getting.

She’s barely coherent by the time Dean’s lapped the bite carefully closed, weak kneed and hanging from Dean’s jacket. None of which is to say unconscious, regardless of Sam’s worst fears the first couple of times around. No, she’s very much awake, if not entirely aware, busy pulling the usual ‘come home with me’, ‘just one more’ routine because nobody can seem to get enough to Dean Winchester. It was true enough when he was human, Sam’s not sure why he expected that to change.

Dean doesn’t have an exceptional amount of patience for them after he’s fed though - again, Sam’s not sure why he thought that would change. He takes care of her nicely enough, pulls her clothes back into place and more than half carries her back inside. A few hours to sleep it off, a couple of days to get back up to full strength and she’ll be fine. Sam continues to amaze himself with how easy it is for him to rationalize away something he was brought up to hate.

Tears well in his eyes as the back of his head smacks against the wall without warning, heavy warmth like Dean only ever has after he’s fed molded to his front.

“You little pervert,” Dean grins, cupping Sam’s junk in a wide, hot palm, the other on the side of his neck, idly toying with his hair. “I’m so proud. Always knew you had it in you.”

And Sam has every intention of say something to that, just as soon as he figures out what the hell it might be, but the chance is stolen by Dean’s mouth opening against his in something too vulgar to be a kiss.

He tastes sharp, salty, the familiar, inexplicable taste of blood that Sam’s gotten to know too well over the years of taking hits to the face. Something in him clenches, not nearly as disgusted about it as he ought to be.

“You like watching us, huh? Saw you eyeing up her wet little pussy. Nice and sloppy. You like it like that?”

This too, is becoming routine, if not for the fact that Sam’s always stunned by it. A part of him keeps expecting Dean to outgrow it or something like that, some kind of weird attachment phase to his first feed that will wear off, but it hasn’t.

It’s like before, in a way, but different at the same time. He trusts Dean fully and absolutely, but now that that innate trust has been verified by Dean’s proven ability to stop himself, Sam’s reservations don’t stand a chance. It leaves him floundering in a DMZ of adrenaline and calm.

He could get away, if he really needed to - a short silver knife in his pocket along with an encyclopedic knowledge of every last one of Dean’s physical weaknesses - but it would be a fight, the feral side that feeding awakens in Dean amped up and motivated, and he doesn’t want to risk it if he doesn’t have to. He’s convinced that the only reason Dean agreed to give this a shot in the first place was because he felt guilty for feeding off of Sam and he really doesn’t want to make it harder on his brother than it already is. Dean’s always cared more about the black and white borderlines of right and wrong than Sam does.

“You want me to fuck the next one for you, let you watch? Or do you wanna get up on it yourself, hmm? Slide your dick into some tight piece of ass while I drink her?”

Without the fight-or-flight shouting him down, though, Sam’s aware, way more distinctly than he wants to be, of everything that’s going on. Dean’s lips teasing at his throat, thin grazes of fang so shallow they make the skin itch, soft, hot tongue kneading at a vein the same way Dean’s palm is rubbing against his dick, a reminder he doesn’t need of how that mouth feels on more interesting extremities. The inside of his shorts are wet with precome, pulse after pulse oozing free as Dean works him far too expertly, fingers fanned out wide to roll his balls too.

Starting tomorrow, Sam’s making a point of getting laid more often - he clearly needs a lot more sexual interaction. From people he’s not related to.

“Or we could do her together. Could just hold her between us and get both our cocks wet at the same time. It’d be so tight, Sammy, the both of us shoved in there making her moan. Might even make her scream, big as you are.”

He’s been anticipating it so long he startles when Dean’s teeth slide home, a smooth, deep slice sharp enough that the pain doesn’t register until they’ve pulled free again. The hit of Dean’s saliva - on the plus side, these uncomfortable interludes have given Sam plenty of opportunity to make first-hand observations on the effects of a vampire bite - is more intense this time, because of the placement or some sort of delivery system related to the bite itself Sam doesn’t... can’t... oh fuck.

The music from inside is nothing but a mosquito buzz now but it seems like the wall behind him is pulsing with the beat. Maybe that’s just his own pulse, though, throbbing point-counterpoint to Dean’s lips on his skin. Or maybe that’s the broken pieces of a moan he realizes too late are tumbling out of him. Shit. Fuck. Ok, so the trust thing is still a mystery, but he completely gets why someone would be willing to hang around a place like this offering themselves up as a snack. It’s like high-test sex injected into his bloodstream.

Dean presses the flat of his tongue against the bitemark and Sam nearly comes, sizzling bliss branching out along his nerves and zinging around in his skull. Then Dean’s pulling back enough to rub their faces together, damp mouth going sticky in the cold air. Sam’s eyes snag on it when Dean puts enough room between them to get a look, florid smears over his chin and cheeks, clinging to the curves of his lips even after his cherry-stained tongue runs over them, salacious and gut-wrenching. His eyes are huge, that creepy almost-demon-black with emerald splintered through. Dean doesn’t look less than human he looks... too human, intensely, viciously human with Sam’s blood coloring his face and his eyelids hanging heavy, life on his breath and sex in his eyes. Like this is what he’s always been underneath a shell of civility. That this is what they all are, what Sam is.

Sam’s hand is underneath Dean’s shirt, feeling up the valley where muscle gives way to spine, and he can’t figure for the life of him when he put it there.

A noise that sounds like it was ripped out of him with pliers comes out of Dean and then he’s back up in Sam’s space again, licking at him, satin tongue rasping on stubble. Cleaning him up, Sam realizes dimly, bathing him like a kitten. At some point in the distant, theoretical future Sam has a feeling that’s going to be incredibly awkward to think about but that’s not where he is now. Right now he’s dick to palm with his brother and Dean’s pulling out all the stops. Twisting and rubbing, just the good side of painful through the rough fabric of his jeans. No way could a regular person have that kind of dexterity through the thick cotton but to Dean it’s nothing, he’s probably working just to keep from accidentally tearing it right off of Sam’s body.

Gunshot-sudden, his other hand is shoving rudely down the back of Sam’s jeans, trapping his arm at an odd angle. If Sam could get enough space to think he could come up for some reasoning for that but he doesn’t get the chance before Dean’s fingers are pressing between his cheeks and rubbing dry over his asshole. It would be worthy of some very harsh words if Sam wasn’t so busy having his nerves systematically switched on by Dean’s mouth and his hands.

Dean’s lips slip down to the stretch of Sam’s throat again, close enough to his windpipe to make his breath stutter, and sinks his teeth in again. It _hurts_ there, way too sensitive, until whatever it is in Dean surges in and twists the pain into something so sweet Sam’s molars ache.

He can’t even work out which way to buck, forward or back but it doesn’t matter anyway, Dean’s not giving him a choice. Rough fingers squeeze at his cockhead, palm massaging the shaft at the same moment that one tip slides past the resistance and up into his ass, sharp pain and pleasure shaken to a heady cocktail at the base of his spine.

“Oh fuck,” worms out of him thready as all hell and he’s just as bad as any of those girls right now, grinding down on whatever Dean will give him, grabbing at this brother’s skin, the collar of his jacket, palming the back of his head to hold him right there and make him keep sucking at Sam’s neck until he can’t breathe for the pressure.

Thin trickles of blood escape Dean’s mouth and seep into the collar of Sam’s shirt, a kiss of cool on his overheated skin. The coiled pleasure ratchets tight, Dean’s hand working his soaked cock mercilessly, finger wriggling deeper, bizarre and invasive, almost too bad to be good but it is, it so is. He can’t even handle how pure the euphoria is, swelling to press at the cage of his ribs, drenching the pan of his hips, blistering, aching perfection. And then it pops like a bubble, sparkling and iridescent all over the inside of Sam.

He thinks he yells but he can’t really tell and there’s not enough air getting to his lungs for it to have been very loud anyway. Come pumps free of him, throbbing hot. Sticky gobs of it cling to his skin and hair, pasting his underwear to his body as Dean knuckles at something with the finger in his ass and instead of slowing down Sam gets hit by a whole new wave of ecstasy.

Dean’s groaning against Sam’s skin, fucking roughly against his thigh as he shudders his way through his own orgasm. They don’t talk about it, but Sam thinks there must be something about the endorphin rush in his blood that Dean can taste and it gets him off too. It makes him a little curious if it happens the same way with the girls and Dean just has incredible stamina or if there’s something specific about Sam that keeps driving Dean back for more.

Of course, Sam’s always been good at coming up with questions he doesn’t really want the answers to.

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Gordon Walker has always been an asshole. Dean gets it, guy’s whole family was killed by vampires, that’d be enough to royally screw anybody’s social skills. When all is said and done, Dean’s had a relatively trauma-free life by hunter standards and he’s never won any popularity contests either. While it’s kind of limiting, he understands why, under the circumstances, a guy like Gordon would choose to go on a vamp-only hunting diet.

That’s all stuff Dean can respect from a professional standpoint and sure as hell nothing he’d begrudge the guy. But Gordon just hit Dean’s brother in the face with a tire iron, which means that the letting shit go portion of the evening is officially over.

A jagged roar bursts out of Dean’s chest like a physical thing, hurled at Gordon just ahead of the weight of Dean’s own body. Gordon’s good at this, fast, tricky. He hasn’t survived this long as a vampire hunter without learning a thing or two, which Dean guesses explains why he didn’t smell the tell-tale sting of silver or the withered odor of dead man’s blood. How he plans to beat Dean without them is a good damn question, but it’s one that’s only turning over in the back of Dean’s mind as he skids to a stop on the black-ice covering the motel parking lot like a blanket.

It’s a risky, stupid place to set an ambush - anybody could walk out and see them, and authorized hunter or not, throwing down where civilians could get hurt is a major no-no. Dean had always heard the guy was unhinged but this is a whole other level of what the fuck.

Sam’s crumpled against the wheel well of the powder-blue Crown Vic next to the Impala, bleeding but not bad, nothing arterial in the tendrils of scent coaxing at Dean’s less controlled side. He shakes them off, the temptation nothing compared to the boiling flush of fury at Gordon standing between them.

“You don’t wanna do that, Winchester,” he says, brandishing a long buck knife, too short to get decent torque for something like decapitation, but easier to tuck inside his coat. “After all, you may be a lost cause, but Sammy, here,” the animal inside Dean spits acid rage at the casual nod Gordon flicks at the groaning slump of his brother, sidled in too close for Dean to make a dive for Sam, “well he could still go back to the Guild, welcomed with open arms. It’s not his fault his big brother’s a monster.”

Gordon’s eyes go wide, all mock innocence. “Hey, maybe he’s even been trying to hunt you down all this time, huh? For all they know, he was just trying to do the right thing. ‘Course, that’ll be a lot harder to believe if these start showing up.”

Inching closer to Sam, boots crunching on ice and salt, Gordon reaches into his coat and draws out a rolled stack of papers. The wet ground starts seeping through them immediately when he throws them down in a fan at Dean’s feet, flipbook images turning transparent. Inky ghosts of him pressing his brother up against the outer wall of some bar or club, god only knows where, hand in his pants, red mouth at his neck, rucking up his shirt to bite at his nipples, sliding down to leave scarlet marks on his dick.

“Not a lot of ways to take that, is there?” Gordon’s smile is bright, mocking. “No, the Guild really wouldn’t have any choice; aiding and abetting. Lock him up for the rest of his life if they decide to go easy or else just give him the old Marie Antoinette.”

His fingers flex on the knife like he’s just itching to run it across Sam’s throat personally. That fine tread running between Dean and his brother suddenly feels like barbed wire and it’s not tugging, it’s hauling on him, steady pulse in the back of his head like the heartbeat he barely has, _mine, mine, touched what’s mine, hurt what’s mine_.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all set up. Unless the right messages get to the right people, these’ll be in the hands of every newspaper, TV station, and two-bit blogger in the country by sunrise tomorrow. But if all goes according to plan, we can forget about the whole thing; Sammy can go back to the Guild and you can finish dying like you were supposed to before the Council went soft. What do you say, Winchester?”

_Mine._

“Fuck you.”

The words curl free of Dean with barely a voice, every fiber of his being coiled and ready to strike. Gordon smiles that same glittering, vicious twist that Dean’s just dying to tear right off of his face.

“I was really hoping you’d say that.”

With every ounce of strength he’s got, Dean lunges, a hair’s breadth off when Gordon dodges, flinging himself against the Crown Vic and stabbing out with his knife at Dean’s side. A quick block and feint knocks the blade away from his body, gets him in close to Gordon, one swipe of his teeth away from-

The syringe jams into his chest, the cold, sickening creep of dead blood webbing out under his skin.

Dean stumbles back, yanking the needle away long after the damage is done. How? He would have- he should smelled it, even inside the plastic he should have been able to pick up something.

Like he’s reading Dean’s mind Gordon grins, “Nightshade. Little trick I learned years ago, messes with vampires senses. Handy, huh? Keep meaning to tell the Guild about it but somehow it always slips my mind.” He kneels down within reach of where Dean has sunk to the ground, malicious glee in his eyes. “But hey, a little secret never hurt anybody, right?”

Dean’s “Mother fucker,” trickles out too slow, slurry. His body is moving like he’s swimming in cold syrup, too heavy and uncoordinated to do what he wants it to.

Gordon laughs. “Don’t think you’re one to talk, under the circumstances, _brother fucker_.” The knife skirts up Dean’s hand and over his arm. He tries to bat it away but it barely comes out a twitch. “Always heard about you two but I assumed it was all talk. Then I finally track you down and there you are, doing little Sammy dirty.” Freezing whisper of steel running up Dean’s throat with the point of the blade. There’s no reason for it, the oxygen’s not doing him any good, but he can’t stop himself from breathing fast, panicky. This can’t be the way it ends. Not like this. Not with Sam still in danger. “Tsk tsk, Winchester. What would your d-”

Gordon’s voice cuts out on a gurgle, the next cough of air iron-heavy with the blood drooling past his lips. The chiseled end of the tire iron is glossy, blood-black where it protrudes from his chest. Jerks when Sam twists and pulls it free again.

“He’s the only one who gets to call me Sammy.”

Gordon lists to the side and topples, hand cupped over the oozing hole in his chest. For the first time since Dean turned, the smell doesn’t appeal at all.

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It takes all of six hours for everything to go viral.

No one had actually walked out and saw the fight that Sam knew of, but even in the middle of the night, that kind of dust up was bound to have attracted someone’s attention, even if they were smart enough to stay out of it themselves. He and Dean didn’t stick around long enough to check up on the local PD’s response time.

There’s barely any mention of Gordon at all. Going after a vampire would have been one thing, but exposing private hunter matters to the public is nearly as bad in Guild’s eyes as if Gordon had been turned himself. The son of a bitch was crazy and Sam doesn’t feel even a little bad about leaving the charred remains of his bones in the woods for some animal to make a snack out of.

As for the pictures, they’re blurry, shadowed, a worse quality than the ones that had bled ink all over the motel parking lot. Within a couple of hours it becomes obvious that someone’s been tampering with them, different versions cropping up everywhere with details big and small changed. In one of them Sam’s actually a girl. It’s all part of the Guild’s public relations shuffle, he knows, covering their own ass, not his and Dean’s. He’s grateful anyway. Glad he took the time to make friends with the crazy genius who makes up the Guild’s entire tech department. Always knew he liked Ash.

Another two days and the vampire-Winchester story has been as debunked as anything ever gets among the conspiracy theorists on the internet. There’s a lot of people swearing that they’ve seen them here or there, dotted all over the country in places Sam’s sure he’s never been, let alone since Dean developed fangs. There’s also a disturbing number of chatrooms devoted to what they’re calling ‘Wincest’ that Sam has learned very quickly he’s better off not looking at. The fact that some of that stuff has actually happened between him and Dean only makes it weirder..

The bigger issue is that if the Guild is covering it up, then obviously the Guild knows, which, in all likelihood means more hunters will be on their way and soon, even if Sam has technically kept his promise - Dean hasn’t killed anybody.

Figuring their best plan is to get as far from the scene of the crime as possible, they end up squatting in an unfinished development in the north of Maine. Dean keeps grumbling that the reason it’s unfinished is that they realized nobody wants to live in the north of fucking Maine and Sam’s not particularly inclined to disagree with him. It’s freezing and eerily quiet and far too much of a reminder that everything is off-angles between them.

From the very start Dean’s feelings about their situation have been less than subtle, both the sexy ones and the verging-on-Catholic guilt ones. Sam’s been too occupied with the basic business of keeping them alive and trying, in the meantime, to find this fabled doctor when the leads keep coming up dry, to deal with Dean’s issues and, in all honesty, he hasn’t wanted to. Despite what his brother might think, talking about uncomfortable stuff is not one of the great joys of Sam’s life. He’s still a Winchester, if the slightly less repressed model.

But not talking about it has also led to a lot of not thinking about it on Sam’s part, and now that they’re trapped in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but watch the self-blame tear Dean apart, Sam can’t do anything but think about it.

They’ve survived a lot of things they shouldn’t have and come out mostly whole on the other side of it because they give each other everything, always, as a matter of course; a coping mechanism honed deadly-sharp. Dean has always been the one Sam turned to for anything, everything, and as much as Dean might want to deny it, he knows the same is true in reverse. No home, no real family, no life, no choices. Just the two of them against the world, and in a perverse way, Sam has always liked it that way. He’s never had anything in the world he could claim as his and his alone except for his brother.

So if Dean needs his blood or his... his body, then Sam hasn’t hesitated to give them willingly. They’ve always belonged to Dean anyway.

Given the opportunity, Sam would prefer not to think too hard about the fact that being willing to have sexual contact with his brother wasn’t nearly as difficult a decision to make as the one about what that means for the two of them.

He’s never been particularly big on casual sex, it happens and it’s fine, but he’s always preferred actually giving a damn about the people he sleeps with. With Dean it’s more complicated than that, though, since casual doesn’t really figure into the equation. What they have already, even before Dean was turned, is a lot more like a marriage than Sam had ever presumed he’d get. Throw sex into the mix and the differences become nominal at best.

At heart, Sam’s always been a planner. Maybe it’s something to do with the Seer thing, wanting to know what the future has in store. There’s never been a point in his life where he hasn’t had a scenario worked out for how he might live out the rest of his days. It’s changed over the years, sure, evolved from a big house with a wife and a couple of kids to an apartment full of books, maybe a dog, to some small place in the middle of nowhere where he and Dean could spend their days knocking around.

The most recent iteration has been a body shop, detailing hot rods and specialty jobs. Dean could work on the cars and Sam could handle the business side of things, a little house out back where they could sit on the porch and share a beer. He’d always assumed it would be after retirement, one or the other of them with a limp or some permanent injury that would be an impediment on a hunt, but now, once they find a cure - they will, they have to, visions are hard to read and assuming that the grey eyed woman is saying what he immediately assumes she’s saying is just asking for trouble - he doesn’t know what will come next.

Would Dean ever be able to look at him the same way once he’s stopped starving for Sam’s blood? Would he understand why Sam let it happen between them and forgive it or would it tear them apart? And would Sam be able to get over having that much of Dean and then being forced to give some of it back?

Sam can admit that he’s greedy, selfish sometimes and in particular with Dean. He grew up without a lot of stability outside of some freckles and a promise that Dean would take care of him so it’s not exactly stunning that there’s a part of him, not even a small part, that craves being the center of Dean’s universe. A hungry, jealous little thing that he’d done some varsity-league wrestling with when he was a teenager, after Dad got sick and Dean started doting on the man like loving him enough would make up for the fact that they barely knew him in any meaningful way. He thrives on Dean’s notice more than is probably healthy and the more he pays attention to it, the more he’s starting to think that it might not just be the chemicals in Dean’s bite that make him feel the way he does when they’re _together_.

It would be easier to get a feel for it if Dean didn’t keep dodging him like the plague, but the fluttering in his chest when Dean’s eyes stick on his skin too long definitely aren’t fear and there’s a preening sort of desire that makes him linger a little as he’s getting dressed in the mornings or undressed at night that he hasn’t got a decent excuse for.

The dreams are certainly... evocative. _Pro_ vocative. It’s not especially stunning after everything for him to have started having visions about the two of them mixed in with the ones about the grey eyed woman and her dark eyed friend, but they’re turning up in his rotation more and more and not always as visions. Sometimes they’re just dreams, plucked from the depths of his own morally questionable subconscious. Dreams about boning his brother and moaning for more. He’s broken a very proud six year streak of not coming in his sleep thanks to those.

So maybe it’s not just a vampire-sex-blood thing. Maybe Sam actually wants Dean the same way his brother is trying so hard to pretend he doesn’t want Sam.

And assuming all of that’s true, even ignoring the world full of trouble they still have to contend with, where does he go from here?

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=4e979d23.jpg)

The slap when Sam’s hands hit the hood of the car, his chest following after at a slightly lower velocity, is loud enough that Dean’s glad there’s nobody around for miles to feel the need to check up on them. Not that there isn’t plenty of him that’s roaring to let people see, put on a show that’ll make sure everybody who cares to look will know that the pictures were real, but he kinda doubts Sammy would appreciate that. He’s always been a shy kid.

“Just a taste,” Dean says, muffled when he gets distracted licking at the shell of Sam’s ear. Sam knows what he means. “C’mon. Little itty bitty teeny one.”

There’s not a whole lot of point in asking; he’s already busy tugging at Sam’s fly until his jeans go lose around the cut of his hips and shoving the works out of the way. Sam gasps, the cold air hitting all of that hot flesh that has Dean moaning through a giggle, hopped-up and crazy-feeling.

His whole body is racing inside of his skin, his awareness buckshot scattered around the pounding heat and the lingering taste in his mouth, the tingle in his fingertips and his toes and the roots of his hair. He can feel the stars, bright licks of light at the back of his hands where they splay over Sam, digging at the cloth of his shirt, manic and sharp as Dean feels, eight steps ahead of what’s going on even as it’s happening.

Sam sucks in another breath and shivers, “You already had a taste,” into the mirror-shine of the Impala’s paintjob, lip catching at still-warm metal.

There’s a dark shadow high on Sam’s neck close to the jaw bone that proves he’s telling the truth. Dean would say he likes that particular locale because it’s tender but there’s a giddy buzz in his system thinking about how Sam won’t be able to hide it tomorrow even with only Dean there to see.

Like so much else, it’s hush-hush between them, what happens when Dean feeds; what happens every single time that Dean feeds. The same way he doesn’t say a word about the way he can smell the anticipation pouring off of Sam before they even make to it the car when they go out to find Dean a meal or the way the blood that ends up in Dean’s system those nights is always topped off with a little hit of something from his baby brother’s veins. The same way neither of them mention how Sam’s been coming in his sleep practically every night for a week like he’s taking puberty for a joyride down memory lane, going 80 with the brake line cut.

The same way they keep pretending they’re just normal, ordinary brothers when there hasn’t been a day of their whole lives where that was the truth.

It’s a lot clearer now, like this, than it will be tomorrow or the next day when Dean feels like he could bench press a couple of semi-trucks and wants to curl up and die from the shame of molesting his own brother, of not being able to control it. But he can’t, no matter what he promises himself over and over again before he feeds, and moreover, he doesn’t want to. Not really. He will later, so much that by the next time the hunger hits he’ll be sick with how much he wants to tie down the instinct and burn it away. But one drop of blood on his tongue and those feelings just melt under the weight of the rightness of this, Sam all around him, everything he can smell and feel and taste. Sam is his and he’s Sam’s and that’s just how it should be.

He argues, “One more,” like he’s really looking for consent when his fingers are already spit soaked and pushing between Sammy’s ass cheeks.

That gets Sam wriggling, a “Dean,” flung at him as if Sam really wants to get away from it. He doesn’t smell like he does, though. Smells like his dick is dripping against the Impala’s grill and that’s more permission than Dean needs to push two up into Sam’s heat past the resistance.

His brother makes a hurt noise, finger tips gone white with pressure squealing against the hood as he grips at nothing and cants his hips up anyway. Dean huffs out a couple of rough breaths between Sam’s shoulder blades, trying to lock down the flutter of pure electricity laying butterfly kisses on his nerve endings. God, Sam’s such a dirty slut for something in his ass and Dean can’t believe it was just waiting there for him to discover all these years. _Such a little bitch_ he thinks as he slides down Sam’s body, digs his fingertips hard against Sam’s prostate until his brother starts to squirm. _My bitch_ and the thought makes him smile broad enough to bare fang.

Sam tries to say something that ends up as, “oh, oh,” when Dean licks at the soft skin puckered around his knuckles, pushes his tongue between them into the swelter of Sam’s body. He’s never taken it this far before, kept it to fingers teasing around inside Sam or his hand or mouth playing with Sam’s dick but damn, the way Sam feels, the way he tastes, the sounds he makes with Dean licking at him on the inside, it’s addictive and no way is this going to be the last time he’s doing it.

He’s not holding Sam down anymore but his brother doesn’t make a move to do anything but writhe against the hood and bite down on moans. Dean likes him like this - Sammy’s a lot better off when he’s not overthinking things so hard.

It takes at least one bite to get Sam far enough under to let go like this, make him forget a little bit that he has to whine about everything under the sun.

“Gonna come, aren’t you?” he mouths against Sam’s ass, letting his fangs catch enough to leave thin red lines that fizzle-heal almost instantly against Dean’s tongue. He fucks his fingers slowly, never really giving Sam a break from the pressure of the tips, just pulsing them harder and lighter and harder again into his sweet spot. “Go on, know you wanna. You know what I like, baby boy.”

Tight muscles clench and suck at Dean’s fingers, dragging a blurt of fluid out of his cock at the thought of being in there. Sam’s so hot under his hands it burns him down to the bone, scorch marks in his marrow. He’s got no sense of gravity like this, orbit displaced around Sam the same way it has been for the better part of Dean’s life.

He licks a stripe across the spot where Sam’s thigh meets his ass, this succulent, meaty little spot just begging for in imprint of Dean’s teeth. He imagines it worked red from the flat of his hand, all that blood rushing under thin skin where Dean could press his lips and feel it simmer and adds that to the increasingly long mental list of things he’ll have to get Sam blind-drunk and talk him into sometime as he bares his fangs and sinks them deep into Sam’s flesh.

Rich, liquid fire blazes its way across Dean’s tongue, mellows before slinking down his throat and deeper, blooming out like fireworks all over Dean’s body. He’s rapidly becoming a connoisseur - fresh so much more intense than the bags. Sam’s bittersweet with a spike of clove, smoky and earthy and satisfying. Familiar, like his tastebuds were configured around it. For the obvious reasons he can’t use Sammy as his own personal smorgasbord but nothing else lights Dean up the way Sam’s blood does, especially when whatever it is in Dean’s bite and the pressure of his fingers teams up and shoves Sam over the edge. Pleasure headier than any liquor slams through him from the mouth down, force fed bliss so intense he hardly registers the feeling of his own dick unloading in his jeans.

He eases them both down with languorous laps at the bite mark until the punctures slowly stop seeping, narrowing down to pinpricks that within the hour will be newly healed skin. The bruise will linger for a day or two, dark and in some way he doesn’t fully understand, distinctively Dean’s. Baby brother’s going to flinch every time he sits down for the next couple of days and it’s going to get Dean hot every single time, he just knows it. Even when he feels suicidal over it, he never really stops wanting Sam.

Reluctantly, he helps Sam pull his pants up over his sticky, spent cock, taking a little more time than strictly necessary running his hands over the tacky trails of come on Sam’s stomach and nuzzling at his neck. Assuming that doing those things could be considered necessary at all, which at the moment Dean’s pretty sure it is.

Sam is slumped in his arms, taking the bare minimum of his own weight. Not that it matters, Dean could pick him up and carry him, no problem, if Sammy wouldn’t bitch about it until the end of days. But he’s fine with staying here for the moment. Temperatures don’t bother him all that much, particularly after a feed, and Sam’s smiling at him hazily, all pretty and sex-doped, not fighting it when Dean palms his jaw and kisses him deep and thorough, giving the taste of his blood right back to him until his lips are bright with it.

“Hate to break up the party, boys.”

Dean whips around at the sound of the voice, Sam stumbling after.

There’s a woman leaning against the rough-hewn wall, not three feet away and not a single one of Dean’s senses would accept it if he wasn’t seeing her with his own two eyes. She’s got long, dark hair falling in glossy waves around her shoulders, big eyes to match and a wide, smirking mouth. No scent, no sound, not a breath or a heartbeat or the shift of her boots on the gravel.

Even when she steps toward them, it’s quiet, only a whisper of her hair against her leather jacket and a hint of rocks moving under feet.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean snarls. His instincts howl to get Sam behind him but his brother’s still not doing so hot at standing under his own power and if Dean’s got to throw him over his shoulder and make a break for it, it’s better to start from here than having to drag Sam up off the ground.

The corner of her mouth ticks up further, the faintest tip of a fang visible. He barely catches her, “Just the messenger,” over the possessive fury ringing inside his head.

In all of the pick-up joints they’ve been to, they’ve run across a vamp or two. Dean’s found he doesn’t like them any more now than he used to, if not exactly for the same reasons. Sam squirms in his hold where Dean’s squeezing the air out of him.

She stops just shy of arms reach and flicks a plain, white envelope to the ground between them. Sam slurs out something that’s mostly incoherent but sounds like, “Ray lied woman.” Sam doesn’t always make a lot of sense after Dean’s snacked on him.

It gets a funny look out of the girl and a small, sultry laugh. Bitch needs to keep her eyes to herself - all Dean needs is ten seconds to get the trunk unlocked and grab a machete.

She must not know who she’s dealing with though because she just grins all smug at the growl rumbling through Dean’s chest and says, “The doctor will see you now.” Flicks another glance at Sam that runs all the way down his body syrup slow. Seriously, ten fucking seconds. Nine even. “If you’re still interested.”

With one more smirk, she turns on point and starts walking down the long rocky slope that makes up the driveway. Dean watches her go until he can’t make out the shape of her through the trees and then a little while after that. Weighs the merits of going after her vs leaving Sam alone. Which means Sam’s probably been struggling against him for a while by the time Dean actually clues in on it.

He’s calling out, “Wait, wait!” and twisting in Dean’s hold. He stumbles when Dean finally lets him go, takes a couple of unsteady steps toward the driveway himself before Dean catches him again just to keep him from taking a header.

“Y’ just, fuckin’, fuckin’ let ‘er go?” Sam’s still slurring pretty bad so it takes a second for Dean to pick out the words in there. He sounds pissy, though, which is a feat in itself considering he usually turns into a teddy bear after they’ve screwed around a little. He must be really mad. “She’s th’ one, De! In the... in the dream! W’th the doctor!”

This time when Sam pulls away Dean lets him go, only hovering a little when Sam fumbles at snatching up the envelope and tearing it open.

“See!” he brandishes a notecard at Dean with the heading _From the desk of Lenore Westenra, M.D._ and an address in small neat handwriting.

“This is it, Dean! This is it!” He’s grinning bright and gorgeous, little-boy-thrill zipping through him that Dean can hear in the speed of his breath and the uptick of his pulse before Sam grabs him by the face and mashes their mouths together, feeding the rush right into Dean. For a second, Dean’s almost sure he feels his own heartbeat.


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=4fd2c183.jpg)

It’s all so... suburban. Little two stories and modest singles like Easter eggs, muted blues and greens and yellows in row after row. The sprinklers at the end of the block are traipsing a silver curtain of water through the early evening despite the cold, keeping a smattering of green showing through the winter-brown lawns. The next house over has a swingset peering over the fence from the back yard and that? Four houses down on the opposite side of the street? That’s an honest to god picket fence. A white one.

Sam’s purposely avoiding thinking about what it says about him that after the last six months - the last 23 years - this is the part that strikes him as surreal.

They’re parked across the street under the pretense of recon even though they’re hardly unexpected guests. If that woman - Sam’s cheeks pickle hot thinking of how she saw him, them, _him_ \- is in there, the doctor would probably know they were here anyway.

Assuming there’s a doctor in there at all and not some kind of trick or ambush or...

Sam drags in a deep breath and makes himself calm down. Between their training and Dean’s senses, they’d at least have an inkling if something was up. None of which seems to be soothing Dean any.

He’s pretty well kept his hands off of Sam the last couple of days. Usually does after a feed but it’s felt more pointed this time, more intentional. It’s kind of funny all things considered - Dean’s always been an exhibitionist but apparently that doesn’t apply where his little brother and anonymous female presumed-vampires are concerned. Funny in that nobody’s-laughing let’s-not-ever-say-so-out-loud sort of way.

Now though, Dean’s fingers are carding through the hair on the back of Sam’s neck where his arm is cast across the back of the seat. It seems idle and automatic, nothing that should account for the way Sam’s stomach keep bottoming out whenever Dean’s fingers snag on a tangle and pull just a little. He could count the number of months Dean’s been really feeding on one hand and already Sam’s physical responses are shot to hell. If this doctor doesn’t pan out... well that’s a bridge they’ll have to cross once the cliff’s edge is looming up in front of them.

“Ok,” Sam says, hands slapping lightly against his own thighs for no real reason beyond stopping them from twitching. Dean nods and follows as Sam heaves himself out of the car.

The house they’re headed toward is a simple, cream colored number, not one thing about it to say it doesn’t belong to a nice little 9 to 5 couple like every other one on the block. Maybe it does, or did. Maybe this is just a hide out. Or something that sounds less like it was ripped out of a Chandler novel.

Lights are on in the downstairs but there’s no movement that Sam can see beyond the sheer curtains. There must be something though because halfway up the neatly tended step-stone path Dean falters, head cocked like he listening. His face morphs from confusion into some kind of mix of shock and amusement.

“What?” Sam asks, and Dean’s smirk spreads a little more before he wipes it away completely with a rough shake of his head.

“Nothing.”

He gets as far as putting his foot on the little step leading to the front door before it’s swinging open to meet them, two women standing on the other side. One is the girl from the other night, petite now that’s Sam’s looking at her from his full height, the strap of her tank top hanging limply off her shoulder and the bottom of it rucked up all the way to her ribs on one side. Not apparently inclined to do anything about it, she bites down on a grin aimed Sam’s direction that just highlights the jut of her fangs and wiggles her fingers hello.

The other woman is a few years older, perhaps, but not by much; long, light brown hair and big, soulful eyes. Her smile at them is more demure, full-mouthed, sloe-gin-red lips and teeth that peep out from behind them just the tiniest bit too far. Another question answered.

“Sam, Dean,” she nods, puffs a miniature laugh when they both tense. “Relax, we have a relatively small community and you two have managed to create quite a stir. People talk.”

“People,” Dean bites it out like an insult, creeping steadily into Sam’s personal space.

The doe-eyed vampire doesn’t rise to the occasion though, simply shrugging “I think it’s best to be generous with who qualifies as people.”

Her eyes flit, ever so briefly, to Sam’s arms and even through his shirt and coat, the Seer tattoos on his forearms itch with the weight of it. How could she...

She eases forward just slightly, voice dipping lower as Dean edges Sam back with a shoulder like a brick wall. “You have all the tools at your disposal to be a truly vicious killing machine, Dean, and enough hunger to make you want to use it. And what have you done with it? The same thing you did when you were a human being. Why should you think you were anything less than a person?”

Belatedly, Sam realizes he’s scratching at his own arm when the woman’s eyes drop down to where his nails dig in against the corduroy of his jacket. She’s still just smiling indulgently, though, moderately amused.

“Like I said, word gets around,” is her answer to the question Sam didn’t ask. “My name is Lenore, you’ve met Ruby.” She glances back at the other girl who seems perfectly content to watch the proceedings, chin on her fist, elbows balanced on the banister of a carpeted staircase disappearing into the darkened upstairs. Still hasn’t fixed her clothes. “I’m told you’ve been looking for me.”

“You’re the doctor?” comes out of Sam a mumble, only half a question as the tumblers start fitting into place in his head.

“Can you think of anyone better motivated to research the condition?”

Lenore steps back out of the door way, gesturing them inside. Dean stands there, frozen on the threshold until Sam finally gets fed up and ducks around him to get inside. It may be one of the dumbest things he’s ever done, but they haven’t gotten this close just to turn around in the front lawn. Dean grumbles unhappily, but follows, fingers snagged in the tail of Sam’s shirt.

No point in beating around the bush, Sam says, “We’re looking for a cure,” as soon as the door shuts behind them.

“I know,” Lenore nods, and Sam’s can’t tell if he’s imagining that she avoids meeting his eyes or not. “Daniel told me.”

“Daniel?”

Lenore circles around them leading the way into a comfortably lived-in sitting room. Along the way her hand slides up the curve of the other girl, Ruby’s, shoulder, resettling the shirt strap. Ruby turns into it at just the right time to graze her lips across Lenore’s knuckles. Alright, Sam thinks he understands what Dean overheard that had him smiling a minute ago, but that’s not the part of it that pulls his stomach into fancy knots.

It’s Ruby who answers, smug enough to hurt. “Creepy voodoo guy.”

Dean halts in his tracks in the middle of the doorway, yanking Sam up short but the back of his shirt. That got old three months ago. “He knew where to find you?”

“How to contact us, yes,” Lenore says simply, settling herself in an overstuffed arm chair. The whole room would look like somebody ripped off a Restoration Hardware showroom if it weren’t for the lesbian vampiresses.

“We wasted half a year out there chasing our tails and he has you on speed dial?”

A threat of a snarl twitches Ruby’s lip at Dean’s raised voice, one arm draping over the back of Lenore’s chair in what ought to be a lounge but still looks like a fighter’s stance.

Lenore doesn’t so much as blink. “It was important that we let you have that time. You were very new when you met Daniel, you deserved an opportunity to discover for yourself who you are now.”

It’s a bizarre feeling, walking into the middle of a vision. Like deja vu, Sam guesses, only a thousand times more intense. Knowing what’s coming next nearly brings Sam to his knees but he can’t not ask anyway.

“ _Are._ ” His voice cracks. “There is no cure, is there?”

Just like he remembers, Lenore’s eyes soften, pitying. “No. I’m sorry.” He can’t tell if it’s on purpose or just a reflex when Dean tugs at him again, but he goes with it either way, lets his brother pull him back until their shoulders bump, overlapping like dominoes. He already feels like he’s falling.

Lenore keeps talking as if she can’t tell, focused on Dean now. “This kind of physical change, you can’t reverse it any more than you could turn back into a child. Your body is different now, there isn’t anything to be done about that. But that doesn’t make it a death sentence.”

Dean’s voice sounds as wretched as Sam feels, bitter and cast adrift. His hand cuffs a bruise onto Sam’s wrist. “That’s exactly what this is.”

Ruby’s dark eyes roll like the destruction of their very existence is the most inane triviality she can think of. “Don’t be stupid, going underground is not that hard. We all do it.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen how you do it. Nests full of humans that you fuck and feed on and turn into little baby vamps.” Dean’s all venom, dangling from the end of Sam’s arm as if Sam actually has the power to hold him back from attacking the tiny brunette.

“You can’t possibly be this big of an idiot and have survived this long.” Ruby sighs, unimpressed, and perches on the arm of the chair. Lenore’s hand settled on her bent knee like it belongs there. “ A mouthful of blood to turn somebody and you really think that the ‘hunters’ are holding back a vampire epidemic? The ones you kill are dead meat walking. Us, your kind never even catch a whiff of.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, _us_?”

With nothing more than a light squeeze of her hand, Lenore cuts off whatever Ruby was about to snap in return and says calmly toward Sam, “I imagine that you’ve worked out some of it.”

“The control.” He doesn’t bother making it a question.

“Mmm,” she nods. “Obviously I don’t have a proper sample size to get conclusive data, but anecdotally, there are two types to turns. The kind you catch, who have no hope of ever mastering their hunger. I’ve never heard of one lasting more than a couple of years. And the others, like ourselves, who have a more successful transition. Who remain, for all intents and purposes, like we were before.”

“Why?”

“Again, this is mostly guesswork on my part, but some of my testing supports a theory that there’s a genetic component. A natural predisposition if you will. Environmental factors tend to play heavily into it as well, so it’s hard to say for sure.”

Sam still feels hazy, like he’s floating, and the odds are pretty good he’s rocking a decent case of shock, but his analytical side is working overtime, scrambling from one idea to the next along the breadcrumb trail of possibility. His visions don’t always play out the way he’s interpreted them, it could be that’s he’s been jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

“So we could do this, just like we have been? No worry that he’s going to go rabid?”

For the first time Lenore looks cagey, hesitating before she slowly says, “Assuming all other variables remain in place, yes, it seems likely.”

Either Dean’s working along the same wavelength as Sam and doesn’t like it, or else he’s still frustrated and confused enough to lash out at the opportunity. “What variables?”

“Your brother, Einstien,” Ruby snarks, bats her eyelashes. She seems to enjoy pushing Dean’s buttons.

Lenore, obviously being the more practical of the pair, glares at her and explains, “The animal side of our nature is powerful. Every successful long-term turn I’ve ever known had something to keep them grounded in who they are. For you, that’s very clearly Sam. It’s lucky, really. A lot of us go through some very challenging initial years until we find a stabilizing force in our lives.”

Ding-ding-ding. The big neon leaderboard in Sam’s head flashes the winning score and he gets it, so simple it’s more like remembering something than realizing it at all.

“I’d have to turn.”

Dean’s fingers dig in hard enough Sam can feel the bones in his wrist grating against one another but for once his brother’s not paying attention to him. He’s looking back and forth between Ruby and Lenore, eyes so wide open his pupil looks like a bullseye.“What? No. No.”

But Sam’s on a roll now, all of the funny-shaped puzzle pieces slotting into place, so he runs right over the horror-stricken look Dean’s giving him.

“Dean, I’m mortal. Hell, another couple of years and I’m going to be older than you. One day I won’t be able to hang on and then what? You’re just going to let yourself go crazy and eat people?”

“No. Absolutely not. You’re not going to-” Dean splutters indignantly, “You might not even survive it! Didn’t you hear what she said?”

He flings a gesture at Lenore, who looks thoughtful.

“Actually, given that you turned without issue and that Sam’s a Seer, it’s very unlikely that he’d have any trouble.”

Again he’s got to wonder who she’s been talking to because it’s not like he flashes his Seer status around very often, but that’s not the part that intrigues him most.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Seers are already slightly outside of the normal flow of time and what are we but creatures that exist against time?”

Dean butts in by hauling Sam back toward the door. “The answer is no. We are not talking about this. This is not an option. We’re gonna-”

“What? Turn ourselves in to the Guild?” Sam snaps, trying to dig his heels in, “They’ll kill us anyway, Dean!”

“Sam!” Dean yells. It’s a bad habit he picked up from their father, a rough mix of ‘this is not up for discussion, young man’ and ‘I don’t have a good argument so just do what I tell you’. If Dean was thinking clearly he’d realize that that’s probably the least effective method of getting Sam to back down on anything, but of course he’s not, and Sam must not be either because the next thing that he hears come flying out of his own mouth is, “I’m your mate!”

Reality crashes headlong into solid stone. The house around them is silent, vague night sounds making it in through the butterscotch colored walls. Sam’s positive he’s the only one breathing.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” the question comes out more desperate than he can account for when he twists around to aim it at Lenore. “That’s why...”

There really is no good ending to that sentence.

It’s been rattling around in Sam’s head for a while now, an unwelcome pest making noise in the night and pawing through his thoughts at the least opportune moments. The first night he fed Dean put it there, but it’s been nourishing itself ever since, and tonight, watching two actual vampire mates, the touches and the glances, the way they move around one another like gravity is keeping them that way... It’s like looking in a mirror, and not the distorted funhouse kind they’ve both been holding up to this situation from the beginning. Ruby and Lenore, that could be them, easily, they wouldn’t even have to change that much. It’s a little scary the amount of sense it makes out of the last few months, in context.

Lenore looks between them, Sam tugging against his brother’s hold and Dean standing like the fate of the world depends on him not moving a muscle. She slides a glance at Ruby that’s eerily familiar because Dean and he have been having conversations like that their whole lives. Purses her lips and says, “Our bonds aren’t predetermined, there isn’t one particular person fated for each of us or anything like that. It’s simply a matter of who we give our hearts to. But if I had to hazard a guess...”

That’s enough to break Dean. “Fuck you and your guesses! I’m not- this is not-” he flings Sam’s hand away like it’s burning him, “It’s not any of your goddamn business!”

Even with as many times as Sam’s watched it in his dreams, seeing Dean turn and storm out the front door, it still feels like his brother his dragging Sam’s heart along the ground behind him.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=4e979d23.jpg)   


He can hear them moving around inside, aware of it like the brick and mortar and cream-colored stucco is made of saran wrap and he’s the word’s creepiest peeping tom. Aware of Sammy most of all. Feels like if he let it his body would fall into position to mirror Sam’s without even needing to set eyes on him.

Sam’s talking in low tones that sound like honesty and every last part of Dean chafes at it - that he would be spilling their secrets to things like _them_ , talking about Dean, no less. That he’s even alone with them at all, because goddamnit, they’re vampires! That’s why Dean’s still hanging around. Not because the edge of the yard was as far away as he could get before he started to have some kind of fucked up panic attack over being out of earshot of his brother.

 _Mate._ Where did that come from anyway? Ok, so yeah, things have been a little crossways from strictly fraternal lately, but that’s only when Dean’s feeding. The blood’s like a drug, he’s not responsible for making bad personal decisions. It doesn’t even really count! The fact that Sam happens to be the person who’s always there when Dean’s on supernatural Viagra is just an unfortunate side effect of their lifestyle.

That doesn’t make them, like, whatever. Meant to be or something. Because they’re _brothers_. Same parents, shared gene pool, the whole shebang. Dean may be a deeply screwed up guy, but creating a permanent monogamous bond to his baby brother is out there on a limb even for him. Besides, Sad-eyes said that it doesn’t even work that way! And ok, so yeah, Sam ‘has Dean’s heart’ or whatever because, again, _brothers_ but it’s, you know, different. And stuff. Everybody’s jumping to conclusions. Insane, incestuous conclusions.

And Sam needs to get his ass out of that house now so that Dean can take him back to the motel, explain to him how they are not, cannot, never will be mates and then very platonically rub himself all over his brother until he stops smelling like strange vampire chick. It’s a solid plan.

“You know, there’s a bench in the back yard. Might as well skulk comfortably.”

Dean spins around so fast he feels his neck pop. Behind him, lounging against the trunk of the tree Dean had not in any way been skulking under, is Ruby.

“How the-”

The way she rolls her eyes, _again_ , makes Dean wonder if she was turned too young and never grew out of that annoying teenage bullshit. “I’m older, stronger and smarter than you, it was about as challenging as ambushing a toddler.”

Ok, he officially hates this bitch.

“What do you want?”

“You made staring at the house look so interesting I thought I’d give it a try.” Ruby makes show of sauntering up next to him. Dean’s not particularly thrilled about the proximity but like hell is he going to be the one to give an inch. “What do you think I want, asshat? You upset my mate. Throws a monkey wrench into the equilibrium of my world and it makes me kinda pissy so I thought we should chat.”

Sarcasm and snark happen to be Dean’s two favorite sports - he could have won the gold in them, so he is more than equipped to paste on a smarmy sneer right back. “What, this isn't your usual charming self?”

Ruby snorts and crosses her arms, gaze back on the house. Dean’s not about to ask _her_ , but he has seriously got to learn whatever trick she’s pulling that keeps her movements dead silent like that. They’re standing on mulched tree bark, for crying out loud!

“If Lennie were here,” she says staring at the arched window into the sitting room, “she’d give you the spiel that incest is a biological taboo, counter-intuitive to the reproductive health of a species. But we don’t reproduce that way and our biological imperatives are different. Your body doesn’t care that Sam’s your brother because it has no reason to anymore.” Briefly, Dean catches a glimpse of Sam’s shoulder which doesn’t make him antsy or excited in the least. It’s just his brother. “But my girl’s busy making Sam a cup of chamomile tea, so I’ll just say grow a pair and dick your brother.”

Fuck, what is it with the whole world wanting Dean to have sex with Sam? Sam’s all ‘whatever’ and Dean’s body is like ‘yay!’ and the freaking doctor who they’ve pinned all their hopes on and who has let them down epically is just standing there saying ‘yeah, totally, go for it’ and- and freaking _everybody_! How is that even possible? There’s got to be somebody out there besides Dean who still has a problem with the idea of taking his baby brother, the kid he took care of and raised and made into the man he is today, and stripping him down and doing... things.

Damnit. Dean really doesn’t want to be hard in front of Ruby.

“Do you ever shut up?” he barks, more as a distraction than anything because he’s not really sure if she’s still been talking or not this whole time.

“Only when I’m doing more interesting things with my mouth.” Her eyes narrow at him. “And don’t even think about it, you haven’t got the right equipment to hold my interest even if Len wouldn’t kill you for it.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Dean points out, kicking absently at chunk of bark at his feet. Although thinking about it has done a good bit to will away his sudden, inexplicable hard-on. Which is kind of weird because she’s objectively hot, even if also a major pain in the ass. Actually, now that he thinks about it, that’s been happening a lot lately. Unless Sam’s there watching. Then it’s not usually a problem, especially if he gets in close enough for Dean to get a hand on while he feeds, like with that girl in Brewer.

“Humans,” Ruby sighs, dragging him out of that increasingly disconcerting line of thought. “It’s like walking through life numb. They call us soulless when they can’t even feel theirs. They have this tiny flitter of an existence, spend decades of it too young or too old to do a damn thing and the whole rest of it mincing and terrified of finding something real.” Lenore moves in front of the window, handing something over and then Sam’s there in view, looking down at whatever it is studiously. That thing in Dean’s chest pulls so hard it nearly takes him out at the knees. “How many creatures in the world actually mate for life? A handful? A dozen on the outside, that can choose just one being out of all of creation to want for their own. Humans can barely commit to what they want for breakfast and still, it never occurs to a single one of them that maybe it’s their species who’s dead.”

There’s suddenly not nearly enough air in this... outdoors. Again, weird considering Dean’s not completely sure he needs to breathe at all, but yeah.

He gruffs, “Plan on making a point sometime this century?” prying his eyes off of Sam’s silhouette inside the house. The thing in his chest tugs again as soon as he does, but he ignores it with a gargantuan effort.

And if Dean having a hard time breathing is weird then it’s extra-strange that Ruby sighs as much as she does. It’s wearing Dean out. “My point is that you’re all hung up about losing your humanity or taking your brother’s away like it’s this big gift and I’ll bet you’ve never even bothered to ask him if it’s what he wants.”

“It’s my job to protect him,” comes out sounding weaker than it should.

“From what?”

 _From me_ , he thinks.

Ruby can’t hear that, he knows it, but a wry smile turns her mouth anyway as she pushes herself away from the tree and almost soundlessly steps onto the grass. She makes it two strides before she turns around again, still walking backward as she speaks.

“By the way, Dean, in the six months you’ve been doing this, how many times have you considered just packing up and walking away? For Sam’s own good, of course.” Dean’s voice stalls in his throat, no more of a good answer for that than anything else. Ruby pivots in place, far too self-satisfied as she yells over her shoulder, “That’s what I thought.”

It’s the second time since they’ve met that she’s left Dean spluttering and clueless and he doesn’t like it anymore on the replay.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=9d253722.jpg)   


It’s a long drive back to the motel, no more silent than going but with a different charge in the air. Dean’s driving, because it’s night and he just can’t stand to let Sam behind the wheel any time he doesn’t have to. He can’t decide if it’s killing his brother more anticipating Sam wanting to talk about it or the fact that Sam’s not saying a word.

It must be too much for him to take because finally Dean snaps, “I’m not talking about this.”

Sam has to make a concerted effort not to laugh. Humoring Dean anyway, he says, “I know.”

“You’re my brother.”

“I know that too.”

“It’s just a blood thing. It doesn’t mean...”

“Sure.”

They lapse into silence again, broken only by Dean huffing, “I hate it when you do that shit.”

Sam smiles out the window. “I know.”

The night is blue-black, calm, stars bright pickpricks in the sky above. Around them the world it still moving through the same old motions, people wandering through their lives without the faintest clue that Sam’s universe has shaken around him and left him standing in the wake of something achingly familiar and entirely new. Certainly not for the first time in his life, he’s struck by how little he’s ever been like them.

“She really is a doctor, you know?” he says as they creep through an intersection, speedometer exactly on the limit because they can’t afford a ticket and Dean can’t stand to go any slower. “Works in the ER at the local hospital.”

Dean pulls a face at the road in front of them. “That how she feeds?”

“No, apparently they have some...” Sam searches for a tasteful way to put the situation Lenore explained to him, “friends who, uh, volunteer. They’re pretty well established. Hell, they live more normal than either of us ever have.”

An edge slithers back into Dean’s voice when he grumbles, “Sam, I wasn’t kidding.”

“I’m just telling you what she told me,” Sam says defensively. It’s always such a careful game with Dean, planting an idea but not pushing far enough to make him turn against it out of spite.

“She give you a pamphlet too?” Dean sneers, eyes casting briefly over the packet of papers in Sam’s lap. “ _To Serve Man_?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Sam calmly corrects, “Copy of her data.” He thumbs at the edge of the first page, unable to make out much in this light. He’d gotten to peruse it briefly at Lenore’s, but there are a lot of specific details he wants to look closer at. Medical testing is something the Guild has never even considered. Even these preliminary workups Lenore put together is more clinical information than hunters have put together in centuries. He’s talking mostly to himself when he muses, “With some actual resources put behind it, there might really be something useful here.”

Dean’s fingers creak against the steering wheel as he tightens them, shifts, tightens again. “She already said there’s no way to cure it, Sam.”

“I know. I’m not talking about a cure,” Sam agrees, suddenly wishing they had a light in the car. There was something on one of the charts about protein levels that keeps sticking in his head. “But there could be something in the mix that might have a medical value. There could even be a way to help the people who get bitten and don’t turn successfully. If there’s a way to keep those kinds of vampires from becoming mindless monsters, there wouldn’t be any reason for the Guild to have to put down anyone who gets bitten. We might even be able to find a social balance with vampires, to make peace, to-”

“Buy the world a Coke?” Dean’s laugh is humorless, the look he turns on Sam somewhere between disgust and rage. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, you really think that love thy vampire neighbor is a good plan?”

“Why not? Lenore and Ruby live perfectly normal lives, probably lots of other vampires all over the country and nobody even knows it because they have to be in hiding. If they can hold down jobs and have houses and not hurt anybody, why should we hunt them?”

“Because they’re not _human_ , Sam!”

He’s glad they’re pulling into the motel parking lot because Dean’s not looking very road-safe right this second and Sam’s not in much of a mood to back down.

“They’re not _they_ , Dean! They’re you! They’ll be me soon enough!”

“Like hell it will,” Dean slams the car into park hard enough that Sam half expects him to apologize to ‘Baby’ but he’s too busy twisting in his seat to face Sam with a scowl just this side of berserk. “If you think for one second that I would do that to you-”

Which is why Sam shouldn’t push it and exactly why he knows he will anyway, because when has he ever been able to let it go when it comes to his brother? “You’re not the only kid on the block with fangs, Dean!”

Luckily the positioning is awkward enough that he only ends up with part of his back slammed against the car door when Dean fists hands in his shirt and shoves his way into Sam’s space, nothing like a human all of a sudden.

“You wouldn’t dare!” His voice is gravel and fury, cool breath on Sam’s lips and those strange, shattered vampire eyes challenging him from three inches away. There’s a hand on his throat, kneading at his jugular with a thumb, fear-heat flooding in fast and scary-eager. “You’re fucking mine! Nobody else gets to... gets to...” Dean stalls out, the animal in him retreating back to wherever he hides it so fast that Sam almost misses it altogether.

“Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean rages, back on his side of the car in a flurry of motion, cutting the engine. The car ticks quietly as the heat leaches away into the night, but Dean doesn’t move, just stares at the wall in front of them like it personally offended him. “You can’t really want it. Not like that.”

This isn’t really how Sam expected things to go. Usually he has to wear Dean down for days to get him to discuss anything meaningful and he hasn’t exactly come up with a plan for what to say. Hasn’t entirely figured out how he feels about it himself, beyond the fact that it rings true in the parts of him that logic keeps its hands off of.

“I...” he stutters over something eloquent to say that turns to mist when he reaches for it. “I stopped trying to fight you a long while back. And I think we both know that I have inappropriate reactions when we’re... close like that. But no, I can’t say I really want to vampire-marry my big brother.” Ends up stuck on honest instead, craning his arm for the papers Dean knocked out of his lap in lieu of eye contact. “Can’t say I really don’t either.”

He finally drags his gaze up to his brother only to find Dean still staring out the windshield. The tightness around his eyes is something Sam’s only seen shadows of before; when Sam started having his visions and there was talk about sending him away to be fostered with the Guild, when all the charms and cleanses failed to do anything about how fast their father was wasting away, when Dean woke up and realized what he really was. Fear, so naked and terrible Sam’s chest aches in sympathy.

“Sam,” is all Dean says, that way he has of making Sam’s name sound like a sentence all by itself, more meaning than a library full of books packed into a syllable. He’s never known what to do with it, how to be that much and not let Dean down, but he’s got to try. There’s no one else, and Dean will never ask for it.

“Look, maybe it is some genetic thing or maybe Dad fucked us up that bad or maybe it’s just _us_ , I don’t know, but you and I have had years to get away from each other, find something else, some _one_ else to spend our lives with and we’ve never even really tried it.” He slides his hand across the seat, not quite touching Dean, but close. “This is not anywhere close to something I’d have picked for myself, Dean, but what it comes down to is that if the world was ending right this second, I’m where I want to be. With you. Because whatever kind of love it is, you’re the love of my life. And I’m not leaving you alone on the crawl toward forever.”

His voice goes shaky toward the end of it, hot prickles of emotion swelling up out of nowhere to sting his eyes. Dean looks at him then, finally, stares at Sam like he’s never seen him before, like Sam could reach into thin air and pluck free everything Dean has ever wanted. Glances down at Sam’s hand idling the space of a breath away from touching his leg.

Flings himself out of the car so fast Sam’s eyes don’t pick up on it until the door is slamming closed behind him.

  
[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=39fbb8bc.jpg)   


Sleeping is a pointless, hopeless pursuit, but the alternative is to keep having this same conversation over and over and Dean’s not up for that either. They should have got separate rooms, but cash is tight and they can’t afford to run a credit card - the Guild will be watching their accounts. Besides, it’s not like Dean has successfully managed to be more than twenty feet from Sam without losing his shit in months.

So he lays in his bed, back turned to Sam and listens to his brother paging through Lenore’s papers, scribbling notes here and there and mumbling under his breath. It’s soothing in a way that Dean hates, because he’s spent a thousand nights in his life listening to those exact same sounds that make all the meaningless rooms they spend their time in home.

And that right there is the thing that kills Dean, the one he’s been trying really hard not to acknowledge long after it’s out of the box. For as long as he can remember, Sam has been all the good, cozy, happy things in his world and it’s not a freaky alien force or twisted monster thing that makes him want to hold onto that and mark it up and claim it for his own. Underneath the hunger and the blood, it’s him, just Dean, without all the human stuff telling him no. He can’t decide if this is new or if some part of him has always wanted to pin the only decent thing in his life to the bed with his dick. Put that way, it makes a lot of sense, really. Put that way ignores the fact that Sammy’s his brother.

But just because Dean is out of whack doesn’t make it ok for Sam to hand himself, his whole fucking life, over on a platter and say bon appetit. Sam has always been the best of them, the one who wanted more, who might’ve had a real shot at living as anything other than a hunter. Feeling like he owes Dean is no good excuse to give all of that up, to give Dean something that he can’t, couldn’t ever possibly want.

_I’m not leaving you alone on the crawl toward forever._

Replaying it in his head chokes Dean out all over again. Forever. The realization that there’s not a cure doesn’t hit him nearly as hard as that.

Forever without Sammy. That’s what he’s asking for isn’t, he? Centuries upon centuries of nothing, just hanging around, biding time toward more nothing. Or he could end it, let himself get caught by somebody, bank that there really is such a thing as a soul and he’s still got one so that he might end up with his brother again in the end. But watching Sam grow old and weak, seeing him wither away to nothing like Dad, to sit there and let him die? He couldn’t do that. He’s not strong enough for it and there’s too much of him that would need to save Sam to go through with it. He’d cave given the right provocation. And running’s not an option either. Like it or not, Ruby was right, he’s had so many chances and it never even crossed his mind to pack up and walk out on Sam, not while Sam still wanted him there.

So that’s it then, isn’t it? The only way out, the only thing he can do. He has to make Sam be the one to walk away.

The second he stands, Dean has Sam’s curious eyes on him. He doesn’t stop there, circling around the bed and climbing into Sam’s, crawling his way up his stock-still brother’s body. _Don’t think just do it, dive in and see if you can swim._

The notes flap loudly as Dean knocks them out of Sam’s hands. Sam looks stunned, doesn’t even try to move as Dean settles himself in his lap and presses his hands to Sam’s chest. Sam’s pulse flutters like a trapped bird against his palm but he doesn’t say anything. Can’t once Dean smashes their lips together, not quite hard enough to bust Sam’s lip because that’s not how this needs to go.

“I’m not gonna bite you,” Dean tells him, just so they’re clear, even though his fangs are already dropping down, dangerously simple temptation to let them nick Sam’s mouth. “Not gonna make it that easy on you this time.”

It’s only fair. Sam doesn’t know what he’s signing up for, has only ever given it up to Dean with those bite chemicals warming him up and making him feel good. That kind of stuff might not even work if Sam was like him. Dean’s just doing the right thing, showing him what it would be like, how much more wrong it would feel without those drugs in his system making things fuzzy.

Sam huffs, “You’re an idiot,” and finally moves, but only to arch up and kiss Dean again.

His throat constricts on a sweet rush as Sam’s tongue slides into his mouth, careful little licks and strokes. It’s the softest they’ve ever kissed, Sam being just as cautious about keeping his lips away from Dean’s fangs as Dean is like he’s the one here with something to prove. Stubborn little shit.

Strong hands push under the back of his shirt, all the power in them still not enough to hurt Dean but they’re not trying to anyway. Gentle, teasing touches that feed the burn building in Dean like hot oil. Up his spine, kneading at his shoulders, tracing all the left over freckles and scars that map out his human life on his skin. They smooth over his sides and up his front, touching him like something fragile and precious, like Sam’s the one who has to mind his strength.

A growl presses against the back of Dean’s teeth, leaking out on a, “Damnit, Sam,” when his brother’s hips start a slow roll against his that makes it hard to remember that he started this with a plan.

While Dean’s mouth is otherwise occupied, Sam’s drags down over his jaw, hot swipes of tongue tickling at his neck. Fuck, it’s too good. Sam doesn’t kiss him when they mess around, always Dean’s mouth on him, finding the spots that make him moan. Dean’s got no defense against it all coming at him at once. He knows Sam’s not exactly virginal even if he’s nowhere close to Dean’s league when it comes to experience, but he hadn’t been prepared for this kind of skill. Sam uses his mouth like a weapon to cut Dean to pieces and it’s a fucking revelation is what it is.

Sam groans, “God,” too husky to be properly reverent and tugs at Dean’s shirt. “Take this off.”

By the time Dean considers it, it’s already done, shirt and pants both on the floor and him back in Sam’s lap before it registers that he must be moving vamp-fast again because Sam is staring.

“Well ok then,” Sam laughs, breathy, immediately moving back in to lick at the newly exposed skin. Dean is beginning to doubt the inherent brilliance of his plan. “I want to fuck you. You going to let me?”

He looks up at Dean through his lashes, the fringe of his bangs, mouth still moving patternless over Dean’s chest. Beautiful enough to cut Dean to the bone.

That has to be cheating. There’s a rulebook somewhere and Dean’s positive that move is illegal. His fangs and his dick throb like there’s a direct line between them.

“Sam, you don’t want-”

“Don’t tell me what I want.” Sam lifts his head to look Dean in the eyes.

In this position Dean’s taller than Sam and it’s a head trip, like he just jumped in the Delorean and juiced his way back to when Sammy was fifteen and petulant and so incapable of believing he could possibly be wrong about anything. Dean had always hoped he was going to grow out of that.

He also doesn’t remember getting snared on how pretty and pink Sam’s lips were back then but he’s got an image of them burned into his brain anyway, so easy to lay over the slick, bruised version Sam’s tongue is swiping over now. That shouldn’t make his dick leak.

“We don’t have to,” Sam goes on like Dean has any clue where this conversation started, “but I do want to. I dream about it. How you would feel under me, or on top of me, inside. I want it all. Want to-”

“Oh my god, shut up, Sam.” Dean licks the rest of the words off of Sam’s tongue in an attempt to save himself from getting any other bright ideas. The last thing he needs is fodder for his already overactive imagination.

Sam is obviously struggling with that concept though, because instead of talking now he’s snaking a hand affectionately over Dean’s ass to rub at his hole. Everything Dean’s got jerks with it, cock to lungs to twitchy fingertips which have somehow buried themselves in Sam’s hair without Dean’s say-so.

Sam hums approvingly and massages at Dean a little harder. He doesn’t mean to rock back against it, absolutely certain that this is not something he’s into except for how badly he wants to feel it. The permission he means to give comes out a whimper but Sam must get it because he breaks off long enough to stick his own fingers into his mouth and wet them up before he moans another kiss into Dean.

The slick push of Sam’s fingers - two, which both hurts and is shockingly awesome; maybe liking things up the ass is a family trait and wow, that’s too weird to think about right now - knocks a raw noise out of him and his fangs do catch at Sam’s lip this time.

The animal part of him’s not so sure about being on the receiving end of this but licking up the thread of blood leaking down from Sam’s mouth sates it. Then Sam crooks his fingers, pulls them most of the way out and pushes in again, searching and dedicated, and pleasure shreds through his system like ground glass.

Sam grins and ducks it when Dean tries to get at the sliver of a cut on Sam’s lip, nipping right back at Dean’s lip instead. Damn, there’s a button he didn’t know he had.

“Yeah,” Sam nods as if Dean said something. Could be he did, it’s hard to pay attention when Sam’s fingers are twisting in him in strange, sweet ways and his teeth are leaving blunt little marks on Dean’s skin all over the smell of his blood, hot and wanting, thick as incense on the air. The jeans Sam still has on for some stupid reason Dean can’t remember are chafing at his inner thighs as he rides down onto Sam’s hand over and over.

He finally finds enough voice in the guttural sounds that keep pouring out of him to get out, “If you don’t get your clothes out of the way I’m tearing them off.”

Apparently Sammy likes that idea, going by the sharp slice of want Dean can scent in his veins, but then he’s doing as he’s told - for once - getting tangled up when he forgets to take his fingers out of Dean first.

This plan, Dean decides as he rolls off to the side to watch Sam slither out of his jeans too slow, went right off the rails somewhere. He’s not sure how it happened, but Sammy looming over him with blood smeared on his chin and sweat glistening on his chest like some kind of pagan sex god was definitely not how he’d intended for this to end. He can’t remember why that was now because, fuck, this is awesome, but not the plan.

Sam plants a hand on the mattress next to Dean’s head, the other slipping back behind Dean’s balls and up into him again, so smooth his toes curl.

“Enough?” he asks, and Dean nods like he has any idea. The size of Sam’s dick in comparison to his ass is geometry Dean probably isn’t cut out for when he’s firing on all cylinders, let alone when he’s got a world full of Sammy up in his business, messing with his head.

Either Sam doesn’t realize that or doesn’t care because he takes Dean at his word, spitting loudly into his hand and slicking up his cock with it.

Dean’s never been overly picky about what ends up in his bed, but dicks have been in the minority and even then he’s never spent all that much time thinking about them; they’re there, they’re functional, sometimes they’re attached to really hot people he wants to pound his own into. Sam’s looks good though. Everything about him does, all the time. It’s not any kind of fair that Dean got stuck as one of the few of people on the planet who’s not allowed to want to get his hands all over that; not that that’s actually been stopping him lately. Not any kind of fair that his kid brother grew up to be the kind of gorgeous, sexy, perfect that grabs Dean by the soul.

Pain is hardly a stranger to Dean, but it’s still unexpected enough to shock a gasp that bleeds into a bellow out of him when Sam settles against him and pushes. To his credit, Sammy doesn’t let up, takes him with stilted rolls of his hips, the same cautious certainty he has when he’s pulled bullet slugs and glass shards out of Dean’s body, meticulous and completely dedicated.

It’s mind blowing, to be the focus of that sort of attention. Instead of soothing the gritty burn flaring through him it stokes it, rushing out along his nerves like wildfire over dry grass, crackling into something Dean has no word for, the bastard child of agony and rapture branded into him like a promise.

All the way in, Sam stutters to a halt, grinding his hips against Dean’s ass and shifting the whole works, so deep inside Dean swears he can feel it in his throat. Stiltedly he drops to his elbows, mouth close enough that Dean has to lean up and get a taste of it or he’s going to actually go insane from the formless energy surging through him.

“I love you more than anything,” Sam murmurs, pulling out a fraction of an inch and feeding it right back in again, turning anything Dean might have had a mind to say into a breathy grunt, “One of these days I’m going to actually get you to believe it.”

Dean has to grit his teeth to keep from biting down on the sweet flex of bicep right there next to his face when Sam drags back again, farther this time, and back in all molasses slow and fucking killing him here, fuck. He tries to shove up against it and goes right back down again when Sam’s teeth fasten on his neck slamming that shiny new kink so hard Dean feels the sheets tear under his clasping fingers.

Sam does it again, teething lower but no softer down the curve of Dean’s neck, hot tongue and slick, blunt bone flirting at the idea of breaking skin and like a knife to the gut Dean wants him to. His blood staining Sam’s mouth, sharp and bright on his breath, Sam’s blood made his own and given back again and oh that’s going to be an embarrassing thought to jack off to later.

Like he’s on a mission to force Dean to actually want to hurt him, Sam keeps the roll of his hips slow and steady. Dean would bitch like nobody has bitched before, but he keeps getting distracted by the little frissons of frenzy sparking randomly from Sam’s mouth on his skin, stomach grinding against Dean’s dick, the heavy, intrusive press of him all over Dean’s insides.

He’s clenched up tight around it, freakishly aware of how simple it would be to ease up and let the ride go smooth - the things his body will let him control now are just as stunning as the ones he can’t keep a leash on at all - but not actually wanting to. This is Sam in him, _Sam_ , just about as close as they are ever going to get to each other, and he wants to feel it all.

The air he’s pulling in is drenched in Sammy, sopping with enough of that salty, earthy heat to drown in. He’s choking on it at the same time that he’s holding it in, trying to stain his lungs with it. Gets enough out to hiss into Sam’s ear, “That all you got?”

He’s not ready for it in the least when Sam’s silky rhythm goes jagged, friction of skin on skin swamping him at the same time as the spike of heat in Sam’s blood. And that is pure, filthy heaven, right there; Sam’s hips smacking against his ass on every thrust, hitting things inside of him that he definitely needs to give more TLC to in the future, Sam’s hair sticking to his face, sweat on his skin, endorphins like expensive perfume thudding all around Dean in the cage Sam has made of his body.

The next punch of Sam’s hips ignites a fire in Dean’s veins, groan wrenched out of him like a wounded animal. His shifts his legs up to wrap around Sam, accidentally buckles his brother when he leverages up into the push-pull and gets some fucking fantastic pressure on his dick from Sam’s slick belly for the trouble.

In the end it’s uncoordinated, scrapping against each other for the same goal with straining muscles. Hard breath and intertwined whines and rasps that mean nothing and everything. Sam stutters to a halt pressing bruises into Dean’s hips and Dean can feel it, this throbbing deluge so much warmer than he is on the inside. He doesn’t know how this works, could just be imagining it, but it feels like when he feeds off of Sam, heat and energy melting into him, juddering along his nerves and then sweeping back, over and over until he’s pulled beneath the surface of it and has no choice but to let go, smearing wet between their bodies.

His heart is beating faster than usual, which all in all isn’t saying much, but enough that he’s aware of it, a much slower downbeat synced to the thud of Sam’s against his chest. If he was ordinary, he probably couldn’t breathe under Sam’s weight but it’s not even a challenge now. Could go without breathing altogether if he needed to - for a while anyway, he’s never tested the limits of that - but it’s worth the little bit of effort required to soak in the smell of Sam all warm and satisfied and Dean-ed up. Yeah, that’s it, Sam smells like him, like the both of them too tangled up to tell one from the other. It’s good, makes Dean’s dick twitch into the sticky divot of Sam’s navel and hey, there’s an advantage to the undead thing - one hell of a recovery time.

Sam’s chuff of a laugh turns into a groan as he peels himself off of Dean, sliding free to leave this empty place that Dean’s already not crazy about. He plops down next to him, legs more off the mattress than on from the weird diagonal position they somehow worked themselves into. He’s wet all over, glowing in the yellowed lamp light like a halo. Any hope Dean had of getting over this, ever, evaporates with the shape of his brother burned photo-negative in his memory.

It’s another long minute before Sam opens his eyes again, slits of hazel peeking out from the lace of his lashes. Watching Dean watch him and the urge is there to try and cover whatever Dean knows must be showing on his face but he can’t manage it just now, too broken open by the ghost sensation of Sam inside of him to piece his armor back together this fast. Something in it makes Sam smile, a smirk that would fit better on Dean’s mouth, one he wants to learn the shape of with his tongue. Blood swirls close to the surface of Sam’s cheeks like he knows it too, heavy swallow clicking in his dry throat before he tips his head back and bares it like an offering.

It hits Dean like a bucket of boiling water, flash-fire heat arrowing straight to his dick, flushing the already swollen flesh of his gums where he hasn’t calmed down enough for his fangs to retract again. A deep noise that’s closer to a purr than a growl shoves its way up from his gut to come out loud and hungry. It’d be distressing if it wasn’t for the way Sam’s soft cock twitches.

He means to say, “No,” but, “Not yet,” is what rolls off his tongue. It doesn’t match up with how he finds himself nosing into the crook of Sam’s neck. Swiping his tongue across the rise of a vein doesn’t help much either but the urge to taste and claim and own is tempered. One bite, just a few drops of his own blood and Sam could- Sam _would_ -

“No,” Sam agrees, “Not yet. Not like that.” His hand is huge on the back of Dean’s neck, simmering heat that doesn’t do a thing to discourage him from nuzzling at tender skin. “There’s still something we need to take care of and it’s probably better if I’m not turned yet for it."

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=f15f3f1e.jpg)

  



	6. Chapter 6

It’s a grey, windy day, rain a threat that may not ever be made good on if the swirling dust is anything to go by. It gets in Sam’s eyes and crunches in his teeth. His hair whips wildly, promising knots and somehow it all seems fitting. None of them has ever been particularly good at easy, ending it that way would have felt like a lie.

Bobby’s sitting in the same rusted out red truck he’s owned since before Sam was born, hands on the wheel, staring out into the miles of open, flat land on every side. Sam had hated the mistrust inherent in asking to meet like this, but not enough to take the risk. Bobby loves them both like sons, but the man is still a hunter.

He’s out of the cab by the time Sam’s crunched to the halfway mark between the truck and the Impala, Dean flanking him close enough to feel the tension bleeding off of him in waves.

“Boys,” Bobby tips his head to them. Lasts all of four seconds of Sam floundering for the right words to say before closing the gap and wrapping him in a backslapping hug. Sam finds himself hanging on harder than he would have thought, throat gone tight.

There’s an awkward moment of hesitation before he moves on to Dean but if anything, the embrace is more fierce.

The space between them is no less anxious when it’s done, but it’s a different kind of pressure in the air, weighing on Sam’s chest instead of raising the hairs on his neck.

“Do you have a plan?” Bobby asks gruffly, fiddling with the fit of his hat. He jams his hands into his pocket as soon as he catches it, pulling a small smile out of Sam.

“We do.”

A pause as if Bobby’s waiting for details before he seems to think better of it. “Well good. Somebody here oughta.”

“You do what you gotta do,” Dean shrugs, leaning just that much too far into Sam’s space. “We’ll do what we gotta do.”

Bobby’s been in this game for longer than either of them has been alive and Sam’s sure he hasn’t forgotten that night in the Council room, so that might be enough for him to see the writing on the wall or it might just be that he doesn’t want to look at it too closely. Either way he casts a look between them and nods, tight lipped. It’s not exactly a subject Sam’s keen on discussing with his erstwhile father figure either.

Unfolding the bundle of papers from the inside of his jacket, Sam hands them over, a photocopy of his own notes paperclipped to the top of the redacted information from Lenore. “For what it’s worth. Somebody should work on this. There’s still a lot left to learn.”

Bobby leafs through the page briefly, eyes narrowing at the name-blacked medical files. “You got all of this by yourself?”

“Yep,” Sam smiles tightly, “Just little old me.”

Bobby doesn’t buy it for a second, but it doesn’t matter. If Lenore and Ruby have been at this for as long as they say, Sam doubts anybody’s getting close to them if they don’t want it.

“Well alright then. I’ll-” whatever else he’s going to say drags out into nothing, the pretense wearing thin. Bobby casts a look at the rocky dirt road beneath their feet and breathes deep like it pains him. “Take care of your brother.”

“I will,” Sam nods just as Dean says the same. They catch each other’s eye, smiles flickering like it’s junior high all over again. Sam feels completely ridiculous and bumping his knuckles against Dean’s doesn’t really help it any more than how one of Dean’s finger snags on Sam’s and holds there, but he’s not sure he minds it either. It’s going to take time before that starts to feel normal, but then again, time’s all they’ve got.

Bobby lingers uncomfortably, looking for something to say, Sam’s sure, because it’s exactly what he’s doing too. He wants to say something about how they’ll understand if the Guild has to send someone after them or denounce them or all of the above. Tell him that they know he’ll understand too, if they have to spill blood to keep each other safe, that he’d never begrudge it of them even if they’re coming at the job from the other side now. He wants to say thank you, and they love him, and they’re sorry. But Bobby knows it all, same as they do, and those aren’t the kind of words any of them was bred for.

So he forces a weak grin when the wind whips at Dean’s, “See ya around,” because they won’t. Turns toward the car, and bumps his arm against Dean’s, does Bobby the service of not checking over his shoulder as he walks away.

They settle in the car, silent, and pretend they’re not both watching the dust cloud of Bobby’s truck driving away. Around them, farm land stretches out in every direction long stretches of open plain cut through by slim, unmaintained roads. They can go anywhere from here, choices wide open for the first time in their lives.

Sam looks at his brother as Dean cranks the engine, familiar roar trembling to life beneath them. He smiles, genuine this time, and Dean gives it back to him, _Ride the Lightening_ like a low soundtrack to everything out in front of them they haven’t gotten to yet and everything long behind them.

“Drive,” Sam commands, fitting back into the familiar pattern with a roll of his eyes, slotting into something new when he leans back and rests the nape of his neck against Dean’s arm draped possessively across the benchseat.

Dirt kicks up under the rear wheels, gravel pinging quietly at the undercarriage as they bump down the pitted road. On, to whatever comes next.

 

 

The End

 

 

_**“When the first living thing existed, I was there, waiting. When the last living thing dies, my job is finished. I'll put the chairs on tables, turn out the lights and lock the universe behind me when I leave.”**_ \- Death, in Sandman #20: "Façade"

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v470/heardtheowl/SPN%20J2%20BB%202012/?action=view&current=976b2a01.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic, I’ve messed around with some of the vampire lore a bit – there are pieces of the SPN vamps in there as well as some more classical vampire tropes and some random stuff I just made up because I wanted to. I’m asking y’all to just go with me on it.  
> Likewise, with the Hunter’s Guild, I’m making up my own rules. I have a bit of the political system worked out in my head, but I think everything you really need to know in terms of the fic is spelled out within it, so hopefully there won’t be any confusion.  
> I know a very limited amount about voodoo and apologize for any inaccuracies. No offense is meant.  
> A couple of terms for the curious (these aren’t essential to the fic, but I know some, like me, have to know the specifics so I’ll save you from looking them up): Bokor – a voodoo sorcerer who operates for hire, a practitioner willing to perform either dark or light magics. Bunyip \- a creature of Aboriginal folklore, said to live in swamps, creaks, riverbeds and other watersources. There’s very little consensus of what one looks like, aside from large and dark colored, but they are considered fearsome.


End file.
